


Synergy

by Sigma



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz, James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Always-a-girl!Alex, Crossover, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-23 04:04:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 88,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sigma/pseuds/Sigma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two weary warriors collide. Neither are likely to be left intact - or unscathed</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for extensive Britisms -I come by it naturally! Any comments would be very gratefully received...

###  Chapter 1

_MI6 Headquarters Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, July 2008_

M looked up across her desk into the dulled green eyes of the young woman huddled on the opposite chair seemingly waiting passively for M's judgement to come crashing down on her. If that was the case it was for once, an erroneous impression on the girl's part, but M supposed that as any such falling axe would only be on par with the treatment the teenager had received before from those in authority over her. Accordingly, it was only to be expected that the younger woman would fear the worst.

M felt a surge of fury rise up in her and ruthlessly pushed it down with the self discipline of decades of experience. Her face, when she scanned the resigned visage of the teenager sitting across from her, was expressionless to any one who didn't know her well; the only tell of her inward fury the slight thinning of her lips and the flash of fire in her eyes.

The face across from hers was objectively very beautiful, even under the remarkable black eye currently shadowing one high boned cheek and the split lip that bisected the cupid bow lips. M knew there were more injuries she couldn't see, hidden under the hoodie and jeans that shrouded the slender length of limbs which she did not doubt possessed far more strength that any one would have given the girl credit for. M glanced at the file spread in front of her again. The fact that this _teenager_ had survived the treatment she had undergone for so long was evidence of that.

Her lips tightened as she scanned the list of injuries suffered on active service in the field again. Bullet wound grazing the aorta leading to extensive cardiac surgery, broken arms, ankles and legs, numerous sprains and bruising and cuts, evidence of torture, possible evidence of sexual assault (although the file also clinically noted that there had been no confirmation of that due to lack of co-operation on behalf of the subject). It was like looking at the file of an experienced 00, not the file of a girl just turned 18.

M glanced up at the still figure sitting across from her. It almost required a leap of imagination to connect the accomplishments and the injuries suffered of the individual in the file to the mannequin of a girl sitting bruised and still slightly bloodied across from her, green eyes dulled and resigned, body language that of a dog just waiting to be beaten again. That some part of *her* government, M's own government was responsible for this was something she could not find in herself a way to forgive and M found that tsunami of fury rising up again as she vowed those responsible for this travesty, this outright ruthless abuse and endangerment of someone who had only been a *child*, would pay for their sins.

But now she had to deal with the more direct fallout in the only way she knew how.

The younger woman had commenced staring at the carpet between her feet as though the ugly Paisley pattern held all the secrets to the universe. M felt a surge of totally foreign pity at the absolute weariness in her posture. Someone so young should not have the body language of someone so old. She cleared her throat and waiting until that young face with those old eyes lifted to meet her own.

"Ms Rider."

"Ma'am."

They studied each other in silence for a second, M doing her best to seem vaguely re-assuring. It wasn't an attitude she was used to projecting and M wondering exactly what it was the other woman was seeing when she looked across the desk at her. Whatever she saw it obviously worked a little as a small amount of tension leaked out of the girl's shoulders and her body language started shouting more of exhaustion rather the tense expectancy of someone about to receive a blow.

Yes. M thought. She could work with that. Any thing was better than the whipped dog tension of a few moments before. She closed the folder in front of her and clasped her hands on top of it, already shelving the contents in the archive of her memory. The past was done. It was better to move forward. Now just to see if she could convince the damaged teenager across from her of that as well.

"Firstly I would like to apologise on behalf of the entirety of MI6 for what you have gone through in the last few years."

Her interviewee looked as though she would interject, but M fixed her with a quelling stare. "Yes – I am aware that it was technically not MI6 that "employed" you, but none the less you were told it was MI6, and you believed it was MI6 and so consequently some of the….guilt….you might say, must fall on our shoulders."

"But.."

M cut off Rider's injection with a wave of her hand. She could tell that Rider wanted to protest slightly, some general sense of fairness wanting to override M's insistence on taking some part of the blame for something that she and her agency had known nothing about.

The small flame of admiration in M that had been lit at the sheer bloody minded obstinacy that this girl had displayed in order to still be alive after having endured an operational tempo over the last 4 years that would have killed many experienced 00 agents, flamed a little brighter at that. That small interjection was telling evidence that Rider had still managed to keep some sense of a feeling of what was justified alive after her brutal treatment. The girl had character. And a sense of ethics as well.

"Do not worry yourself Ms Rider. MI6 has broad shoulders and we should have realised what was going on with Blunt's "Office of Special Projects" earlier. We did not – and you unfortunately paid the price for our blindness." Her lips thinned even further. "As I have said to others in the past, sometimes we are so busy looking for our enemies abroad, we forget to guard against our "friends" at home. And while none of us would ever have expected that Alan Blunt, as ex-MI6 and a permanent under secretary in the Home Office would ever decide to take the idea of "empire building" so ridiculously literally, this does not mean that we are exempt from blame."

She met the green eyed gaze across from her calmly, seeing the mask the younger woman was holding onto so very tightly fray slightly at the edges.

"And so, I can only apologise on behalf of both myself and my service, and the entire government at that. Your service to your country at such a young age and the brutal manner you were forced into that position was unwarranted and wholly objectionable, but we can only be grateful for the manner in which you undertook that service, and the results you achieved, under horrendous emotional and physical pressure and duress. So. On behalf of Her Majesty's Government - thank you for your service."

Something shimmered a little in the eyes across from her and that mask started slipping even further. Abruptly the younger woman averted her gaze and stared fixedly at the painting on the wall on her left, some dull oil painting by some even duller 19th century portrait artist of some long dead politician. M waited in silence for a moment while her guest regained her fragile composure, studying the undamaged side of her profile in clinical assessment.

She really was extraordinary beautiful. If she decided that all M could offer her was not what she was looking for she could easily make a very good living as a model. All that cascade of golden hair, the pallor of her skin, currently marred with a handful of small contusions even on the comparatively undamaged side, the length of limb and the swan like elegance of her neck, the curves that even baggy jeans and a hoodie could not totally hide. M would bet that if she made any kind of an effort she would be the kind of woman who hit men's libidos like a rocket. But from the psyche profiles M had reviewed at the current time Rider was in no shape to handle that kind of attention. In fact the psychiatrists had noted that in some ways she was emotionally a lot younger than her actual age.

That finding made perfect sense to M. Rider had been utilised as a puppet from far too early an age, the coinage of her youth spent and spent and spent again, and the appeal of her beauty and her seeming vulnerability would have been irresistible to some of the scum bags she had been sent to deal with. M was willing to bet that Rider's file, with its bland mention of "possible sexual assault..." was far from all encompassing in that arena. No wonder Ms Rider had retreated from the knowledge of her own body and its innate sensuality. Especially when the rest of what her body had been trained for by necessity was survival and the imminent prospect of dealing violent death.

God knows that M had developed somewhat of a similar coping mechanism herself in the days when she was on active service, utilising her body in a somewhat more direct way for Queen and Country than she did now. Even then she had been aware that she retreating from more intimate relationships outside of her duty and she had been an adult, fully trained and aware of what she was getting into when she went into those situations. Not like Rider.

Once against her lips thinned as that fury rose up inside and she vowed inwardly that she would see Blunt and his associates rotting in the worst hell hole she could find for the rest of the their miserable lives if it was the very last thing she did.

Rider had ceased her careful scrutiny of the nameless painting and turned back, that mask of hers more firmly in place.

"Thank you…" her voice was rusty from emotion, a soft contralto and she paused after she spoke, obviously unsure how to refer to the older women respectfully.

"M. Ms Rider. Just call me M."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, M. I really don't think it's your fault," she paused and momentarily studied the hands clasped in her lap, the knuckles on one hand grazed and bruised. She looked back up to meet the steady gaze of the older woman and smiled a little, lopsided. "But it's nice to hear it anyway."

M nodded in response to the honesty of that statement and her lips quirked in the slightest hint of an answering smile.

"Well, what's done is done, even if we can only regret the circumstances," she continued in a brisker tone. "Obviously, you will need to be fully debriefed and medical will need to keep an eye on you for a few days, but after that you are of course free to go. As has already been explained to you, the actions of Alan Blunt and Clarissa Jones in relation to your 'recruitment' were both illegal and actionable and of course we have no intention of repeating them." The corner of M's mouth quirked slightly. "And I believe that you turned 18 a few weeks ago?"

Rider nodded silently, staring at her bruised hands again.

"So you are an adult and consequently, entirely free of government interference in your life, as much as any law abiding citizen is anyway." She paused, to see if Rider would respond. When she didn't even look up M continued in a slightly gentler tone. "Do you have any idea as to what you will do?"

Rider looked up from her scrutiny of her clasped hands and shrugged somewhat helplessly. "I don't...my finances...someone said something about that.." she trailed off, looking hopelessly confused and more than slightly lost. M bit down on another surge of pity. Pity wasn't going to help this young woman find the ground that was so clearly reeling under her feet. Hard, practical assistance however, might.

"I had someone in accounting and personnel undertake a review of your personal financial circumstances. It seems that your parents both had fairly substantial life insurance policies, the pay outs from which your Uncle Ian placed in an investment trust for you, with the proviso that the trust would vest once you turned 18. As it has now done so. I am assuming from that that your Uncle believed that you would not need access to the monies before you turned 18 as he was obviously providing for you." She cocked her head in question at Rider and the younger woman nodded in affirmation.

"Ian Rider also had a fairly substantial life insurance policy as well as around £300,000 in various investments and savings, and of course the property in London and the bothy I believe he owned in the Highlands, both of which are mortgage free."

"Achnacarry." Rider smiled slightly in remembrance. "We used to go up to the Bothy for New Year if Uncle Ian could get away. There are some amazing climbs nearby."

M's lips twitched slightly in response. "Indeed. It's a very beautiful part of the country." Focusing back on the task in hand she ploughed on. "Ian Rider left everything to you, with the exception of a few small bequests to various charities. As you may be aware, Blunt arranged it so that he was in control of your estate once your uncle died. This arrangement has obviously now been vacated and the full estate is now in your sole control. In addition, although you were not technically employed by the Service during the time you were working for Blunt, you believed yourself to be so, and despite the appalling circumstances you acted at all times as we would expect a member of the Service to act. Accordingly, the decision has been made to ensure you receive the appropriate salary for the time you have been active, retrospective for a four year period, with the normal additions and compensatory payments for active field service, acting in a danger zone, and the various lump sums paid in compensation for injuries received on active service. We have also set up a Civil service pension scheme for you and backdated it to the appropriate date with the appropriate contributions. I understand from Accounting and Personnel that the lump sum over the four year period is somewhat in the region of £500,000, after tax." M paused for a moment, looking down at the file on her desk, before she continued.

"In addition, Ms Rider, a decision has been made to make you a one off lump sum payment in order to financially compensate you for the pain and suffering you received as a result of Alan Blunt's actions." Rider looked as though she wanted to say something again, but M held up a hand to forestall her before continuing.

"We are aware that as a signatory to the Official Secrets Act you are prevented from seeking redress for the wrongs done to you through the Courts. While we appreciate this from the point of national security, it has become clear in our discussions with all parties, up to and including the Prime Minister, that the general tenor of opinion is that some recompense should be offered to you for what you have endured. It would be remiss of Her Majesty's government to not attempt to atone, at least in part, for actions that were, however unofficially, caused by itself. Accordingly, the Treasury has issued, and the PM has confirmed, a one off payment to be made to you of £5 million pounds tax free."

Rider looked completely stunned, those green eyes shocked out of their resignation by sheer surprise. "It was thought that this was an appropriate amount, given what the damages you may have been entitled to in a civilian court might be. So in total, Ms Rider, while the exact figure escapes me, I do not believe that you should have any concerns financially for the foreseeable future. Indeed I would suggest that if you wanted to, you would be unlikely to have to work another day in your life."

Rider still looked as stunned as though someone had slapped her across the face. Actually M immediately retracted that statement. She thought it doubtful that Rider would look half as stunned if someone actually did slap her across the face. She picked up another file from the pile that always sat on the corner of her desk. Best to allow her a few minutes for it to sink in.

A few minutes passed, the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the crisp noise of paper turning the only sounds apart from breathing to be heard in the room. After about 5 minutes Rider stirred restlessly in her seat and M looked up from the file she had been reading to meet the teenager's eyes.

"So Ms Rider. You no longer have to worry about your finances at least. And you are free to do as you please, or at least as free as any one else in this country. Have you thought about what you will do next?"

Rider glanced away from her, briefly examining the carpet and that damnable painting again before shifting slightly in her seat and glancing a query at M as she made to stand up. M nodded in permission and Rider slid out of her chair and started to prowl around M's office, the quiet strength and readily coiled lethality of her frame even more apparent when she was moving. In many ways it reminded M of Bond and her other 00s, that incipient potential for violence held leashed so very tightly. But those men were decades this girl's senior, with military backgrounds, extensive training and experienced killers in the field to boot. To find those same qualities in a girl just turned 18 was….disturbing. M sighed inwardly, pushing down another stab of pity for the girl. Goddamn Blunt! If Rider had just been left alone after Ian Rider's death she might have been able to carve out some small shred of normality for herself, create a life like anyone else's. Admittedly she might have gravitated to the Services eventually, with that family history and her love of extreme sports, but still - it would have been her choice and a hell of a lot healthier for her than this. As it was...she sighed again.

"Ms Rider?"

The stalking figure paused in its perambulations around the room as the golden head turned to look back at her. Guided by the merest lift of M's chin the girl slipped back on to the chair in front of the desk, some innate restlessness momentarily soothed by the brief bout of movement. For a moment they studied each other, green eyes into blue. Rider already looked a hell of a lot better than she had when she had come into the room, that dull resignation already lifting from her frame, the green eyes now shadowed more with exhaustion than despair. But she still looked rather lost and very young and M shoved down another damnable spike of pity. She wasn't some kind of therapist for god's sake!

Rider glanced down at her hands again and up to meet M's gaze. "I haven't really thought of it Ma'am, to be honest." She shrugged a little helplessly. "I didn't really expect to have options, and now I do, I don't really know what to do. I suppose I could go to university, I mean that's what would be the normal next step, and I did manage to get some fairly decent A-levels, despite Blunt's best intentions." She frowned slightly in remembrance of Blunt's fairly blatant attempt to prevent her from completing her formal schooling. It had just been another way to keep control of his asset, if she had no money and no other way to make anything other than a menial living by his lights she would be far more likely to buckle under the whip. It had not been a particularly successful policy.

"And well done to you for that," M injected quietly.

She smiled a thin lipped smile in response. "Thank you, ma'am. But that would have to be for next year. It's too late to apply this year - I missed the application deadlines. And to honest, I'm not sure if going straight to university from active field operations would be...wise."

"Possibly not," M acknowledged.

"Otherwise I really have no idea what to do." She shrugged a little. "Long term, I'm not sure I ever will. This life," she waved a hand around to indicate M's office and the Service that it represented. "It's all I know. It's all I've ever known how to do."

M studied her with a calm blue gaze, somehow understanding all that she was struggling to articulate.

"Ms Rider. If you don't mind me saying so - despite your experiences you are still very young. And going by your past exploits I do not doubt that you could turn your hand to almost anything and make it work. And of course you are absolutely free to do so. Indeed you can walk out of this office at any time and not come back."

She paused momentarily, and the two women stared at each other in mutual assessment before she continued. "However, if you would spare me a moment, I do have a proposition for you that you may be interested in."

Rider settled back into her seat and nodded for M to continue. M paused, choosing her words carefully as she continued.

"You must be aware that your family background, and the training you received from your Uncle as you grew up, how unwittingly you may have undertaken it, have already made you naturally predisposed to the kind of work that we, in the Service, undertake." She caught the teenager's gaze and waiting for her slow nod before continuing.

"While I despise Blunt's methods, I can appreciate that he did have an eye for talent and those essential and rare traits of personality that lead to success as an active field operative. And it is clear that despite your unorthodox recruitment and the haphazard nature of your training you have never performed in the field in anything other than a superlative manner." It was nothing less than the truth but she still saw the hint of a blush tint the pale skin across from her at the praise.

"However, the price of being gifted at what we do is that it is very hard to step back out of the shadows into the light once you know that the shadows exist. When you know the actions that must be taken and the decisions that must be made in order to keep our society safe it is very difficult to just continue in blissful ignorance like the majority of the population. And it is even harder to pretend that everything is fine, that danger is not in the shadows, that some enemies of the Crown do not need to be removed in order for the rest of this country to sleep easy when you know that this is not the case. Ignorance is bliss, Ms Rider, but once you are no longer ignorant it is very hard to regain that state again."

As she had spoken Rider's body language had subtly changed, the momentary spark of energy subsumed by the weight and truth of what M was saying. When the older woman had finished her brief speech her young compatriot looked up to meet that steady blue gaze. There was an element of compassion there carefully shaded behind the eagle eyes and it was to that that she found herself appealing.

"I thought it was just me. That there was something wrong with me. I mean, they told me almost a week ago that Blunt had been arrested, and I knew, intellectually, that that meant I was free. I thought I would be able to relax, to stop. But I can't. Everyone I see I automatically evaluate for threat, every international news item I wonder about the possible ramifications. I just can't stop."

M's gaze was openly compassionate now. "And you won't be able to any time soon, Ms Rider. In fact if you are anything like the majority of those within the Service you never will." Her mouth quirked wryly. "It is a habit, like living, that is very hard to break. The two in fact often go hand in hand. Especially in the field." She looked her young visitor up and down, a brief, clinically assessing look.

"Has anyone ever told you, Ms Rider, that you are a remarkably beautiful young woman?" Rider shifted uncomfortably under the assessment, momentarily nonplussed by the seeming change of subject but refused to break's M's gaze. "And to be blunt, the societal expectations of young women of your looks and your background are not, I believe, ones that you will ever be happy living down to, especially now you have seen the way the world really works. And I pity the first individual who thinks that he or she can take advantage of you, based on society's expectations of how a girl that looks like you is supposed to react." Rider shifted again in acknowledgement of the hit, but held M's gaze. Oh - M *liked* this one. She had *character*.

"To put it bluntly Ms Rider, you are a wolf in sheep's," she paused to re-assess and continued, "no - in *lamb's clothing. And the very things that make you so valuable to a Service like ours are unfortunately, the things that may make it very difficult for you to settle into civilian life. It is an environment that does not respect your skill set, and indeed will expect you to act utterly against your own intrinsic nature in order to "fit in" to the demands that society places on young women like yourself. There is no way to sugar coat this Ms Rider, but you are a beautiful young woman who has the instincts of a seasoned operative and a willingness to do what is necessary in order to fulfil what you perceive to be your mission, up to and including permanently removing what ever obstacle, whether human or otherwise, that is in your path."

She matched gazes with the young woman across from her, seeing the stark realisation of the truth of the words M was bludgeoning into her cross her face, along with the slightest amount of hurt at the bluntness of the assessment. It was never delightful to hear yourself being categorised as essentially a misfit to society or to be assessed as a human lacking in what was considered to be the "appropriate" level of empathy. No sane person liked to be considered an incipient sociopath after all.

"I do not say these things to upset you Ms Rider, because to me and to my Service these aspects of your character are genuinely admirable, things we actively seek for, and very seldom find. But like all of the watchman who watch the boundaries so others can sleep, we are somewhat different from those we watch. And you, Ms Rider, were born and trained to be a watchman, not one who is watched. Plus, I do not feel that you will ever find the satisfaction in civilian life that you would find in utilising all that you are amongst those who will prize you for those qualities, rather than despise you for them.

Rider raised her chin in pure stubbornness. "So, you expect me to roll over like a good little dog when Six snaps its fingers? Simply give up one form of servitude for another?"

"I expect you to use your brain to analyse your choices!" M's tone was icily sharp and Rider rocked back in her chair in surprise. "There is no comparison between what you underwent with Blunt and what I am offering you now, and if you were thinking, rather than reacting emotionally, you would know that!"

A tense silence gripped the room as the two women glared at each other. Rider, however, was the first to break, looking down and away.

"Intellectually, I know that. I know that MI6 is a different animal and what happened to me with Blunt could never happen there. But some part of me is just horrified at losing all my choices all over again."

"I can appreciate that. But you won't. I can promise you this – if you come to work for me, with Six, you will never be forced to take a mission. You will always have the right to refuse." She gave a little wintery smile and raised an elegant eyebrow. "We'll even have it written into your contract."

Rider choked back a snort, being very aware of the difference between what was written on paper and what happened in the field. However, she also understood that the intent behind the offer was serious.

"If I did join, what position would I be looking at?"

"Probationary field officer initially. Then once you have completed your training you would graduate quickly to full field officer. Further promotion in the field would then be based on your performance, which I doubt would ever be less than exemplary."

"What about university? I'm not particularly interested in the undergraduate experience, but I would like to gain a degree."

"We have special arrangements with a number of Oxbridge colleges who are happy to set up programs of personalised study for our people on an individual basis. With a standard operational tempo you may find it takes you a bit longer than a standard undergrad to graduate but I do not doubt that you would get your degree."

Rider looked down at the carpet, thinking. In many ways it was so tempting. She knew that M was right, that she just didn't fit into "normal" life the way she should, and she personally doubted she ever would. All those behaviours, all those habits that kept her alive in the field were things that to civilians were simply too extreme, too much...or not enough. And even though she had tried to deny it, it was when she was in the field that she was most alive, even when every thing was going to shit all around her. Every thing else seemed somewhat….lacking…in comparison. And she didn't know anymore if she could live without that high.

And could she really walk away when she knew how she could help? Could she live with the regret? And what would her parents have thought, or more importantly Ian? Or the grandfather she had never known who died in Korea? Or his father who fought in India and South Africa and France? They were all warriors, the Riders, every one. They had all served their country with honour, and died in its service and she didn't know if she could be the one to break that tradition, to break that chain of duty and sacrifice stretching back all the generations. She could feel it, sinking into her bones – that awful realisation that there was no escape. Even though part of her screamed that she just wanted to be selfish and walk away, to just have to think about the normal things teenage girls thought about, whatever those were. But she couldn't do it. Couldn't walk away and let innocents die when she could use what she was to stop it, couldn't climb down from that Watchtower with the knowledge that there were so few still maintaining the watch. She just couldn't.

M watched the battle clearly playing over the younger woman's face as she contemplated M's offer and allowed herself the momentary luxury of regret. Just because everything she had told the younger woman was true didn't mean she didn't regret the necessity of having to use such harsh truths in order to make her offer. Yes - Rider could try to assimilate into society but it would be hard, thankless work and she would be so much less than she could be if she just worked for Six. But having to watch the slow dawning realisation in one so young of how she was trapped by her very nature, by her sense of duty and her instincts as opposed to any real choice was...melancholy. The burden of the watchman, but taken up in duty and necessity instead of in joy.

But at least if that was the case Rider would have others to share the duty and the burden. Moreover M determined there and then to do the best that she could to make sure that this young woman never regretted the choice she was being forced to make. Starting right now. She recalled something her husband, ex-Six himself, had once quoted to her.

_"If blood be the price of admiralty, Lord God, we ha' bought it fair…"_

Rider had been staring at the carpet again, lost in thought but she looked up as M quoted, looked up and stilled as the meaning of the words sunk in. Those green eyes were solemn, but lit up fiercely as she acknowledged the truth of the lines written so long ago. Kipling always did understand them - the warriors.

She snorted a rough laugh in response. "I suppose I should say it's "not fair", but that's a child's saying and I stopped saying that when I was fourteen." She met M's eyes directly and there was something in that green eyed gaze that shook M all the way down to her bones, although she would never show it. The wolf at the door, the knife in the dark, all the ruthless pragmatism of the born killer was reflected in Rider's gaze and M thanked god that it looked like Rider would be on their side, rather than turned against them. Because what a weapon she would make - for good or ill.

Rider stood and M mirrored her half a heartbeat later. For a second they regarded each other, two women at opposite ends of the spectrum in age and authority and experience, but somehow, despite that, very similar in the essentials. Neither of them had ever been able to walk away from a fight. And by god what a fight it would be. Then Rider smiled, just a quirk of a lip and reached out a hand across the desk. "I'll join you on your wall, Madam Watchman."

For a moment M indulged herself, allowed a small genuine smile to quirk across her lips as she reached out to shake the other's hand to seal the bargain. "Excellent. We will be glad to have you. So- once again, and officially this time Ms Rider - welcome to MI6."


	2. Chapter 2

"Now _that's_ interesting…" 

Bond's tone had dropped to that particularly silky register it got when he saw something he wanted and Tanner's head whipped around to track what had captured the other agent's attention, noting as he did so that Bond had stopped on his way to M's office and was now leaning, arms folded against the edge of the balcony suspended across the entrance atrium.

Tanner rolled his eyes mentally. Bond, for all his all superhuman focus when on a mission, could be alarmingly mercurial when not, and was singularly incapable of not instantly indulging his curiosity when it was aroused. And it was clear that something had aroused that laser like focus, possibly to its detriment. 

Bond was notoriously rough on the subjects of his attention, whether it was weaponry or the far more vulnerable human hearts he left bruised in his wake. Tanner didn't think it was deliberate on the 00's part but that didn't stop the damage he caused hurting any less. Sighing inwardly he turned to stand beside his colleague, looking down at the small group of suit clad figures huddled just beyond security that had so captured Bond's attention.

"Oh yes. The new fast track recruits. Jones in personnel mentioned that they were being inducted today."

Bond hummed slightly in acknowledgement, his attention still fixated on the group. No – not on the group, Tanner realised. On one particular member of the group who was hanging back at the very edge of the crowd, maintaining a slight, but noticeable distance from the rest of the pack. Female, going by the wheat blond hair neatly pulled back in a high ponytail and quite tall, but as she had her back to the group and was mostly screened from their clear view by the rest of the new recruits Tanner could not really see what had Bond so interested. Then she turned around.

"Oh dear."

It was the kind of singular understatement that only an Englishman could make. Beside him Bond made a low almost indecipherable noise, like a tiger purring. 

"I couldn't agree with you more, Tanner."

Tanner tore his gaze away from the young woman with an almost perceptible effort and frowned at Bond who was still watching his newest interest with lazy appreciation.

"We have a meeting with M in 15 minutes, 007," he reminded Bond, a thread of irritation clear in his voice despite his best efforts. Bond glanced at him; one eyebrow raised at the uncharacteristic sharpness in his tone and then leaned back on the balcony edge.

"And I'll be there, Tanner.” Bond responded mildly. “Just give me a minute."

In his peripheral vision Bond saw Tanner huff slightly and then with a last glance at the group stalk away towards the corridor leading to M's office, leaving him alone on the balcony.

The object of his attention had moved behind the rest of the group again, half turned away so he could only see a sliver of her profile and he settled to wait until she turned around again. He had to see if she was as arresting on a second look as she had been on that first, flashing, glance. And that had been pretty bloody arresting. 

The few minutes that passed were nothing to someone who was used waiting for hours in absolute stillness for his target to stir and he was rewarded when the group of ducklings shifted again and she turned back to face into the atrium.

There. And yes –just as arresting on a second glance. Actually, he corrected himself - even more arresting. Inwardly he hummed in appreciation as he scrutinised his newest interest. She must be at least 5"8, maybe 5"9, tall for a woman and most of it was legs that even that horrendously baggy trouser suit couldn't disguise. He couldn't see much of the rest of her figure due to the oversized suit jacket she was wearing but even that couldn't hide the line of her shoulders or the elegant curve of her neck. Her skin was the lightly sun kissed gold of a naturally pale blond who had spent time outside. And her face – her face was remarkable. And Bond as a connoisseur of women didn't use that term lightly. Young, very young. Maybe 23, 24? MI6 didn't hire non graduates for the fast track so she had to be 21 at the very least. High cheekbones and cupid bow lips just made for a man to run his thumb across and then ravage, combined with wide eyes that were currently surveying her surroundings rather dubiously, as if she wasn't too sure whether to just cut and run. 

Bond really hoped she didn't. 

He shifted slightly in place and glanced at the other members of the group for a second. Nothing particularly interesting there. However, the movement must have caught her attention for when he looked back she was staring directly up at him, eyes narrowed.

He looked down at her with a lazy appreciation and her head came up and back at the overt scrutiny, her entire body language telegraphing uncertainty. Then he shifted again, automatically scanning the rest of the atrium for possible threats as he did so before he returned his attention to his target.

The target whose entire body language had shifted in the few seconds it had taken him to scan the room. Where before there had been a young and obviously uncertain young woman, now there was someone a lot more deadly - and _far_ more interesting. 

Cold eyes scrutinised him with a focus he could feel even from a distance, running over his body with clinical assessment, looking for possible weaknesses. The body language had shifted from confused uncertainty to a subtle coiled tension that Bond recognised instinctively. It was the same singing tension that he lived with every day, the kind that saw threat and reacted to it on an unconscious level. Her whole physique shouted predator rather than prey and his own battle hardened instincts started screaming an alert as they registered the potential danger.

It just made her even more fascinating.

He blinked at her, avoiding making eye contact and lazily scanned her from the toes up in a mirror of her own earlier assessment, not even making an attempt to hide his blatant appreciation. By the time he reached her face her body language was even tighter than before and the eyes that were boring a hole into him were glittering with irritation. He smirked at the swiftly hidden signs of temper. Oh good - he did love women who had fire. So much more fun trying to avoid becoming burnt. He slowly scanned her body again, avoiding her eyes and by the time he came back up to her face those eyes were spitting sparks. Despite himself, his lips twitched in amusement as he finally made eye contact with his target.

And stilled, caught in her gaze as she was obviously just as abruptly caught in his.

It was like looking in a mirror. A younger, female version of himself, but so achingly familiar despite that. All the clinical assessment, all the tightly leashed violence only a thin veneer over the darkness underneath. Caught, he held her gaze as she held his and they simply stared at each other for one long moment, each echoing with that strange recognition. 

And then one of the other ducklings shifted clumsily towards his target and she automatically moved out of the way, even that tiny movement full of a lethal grace. But that tiny shift had been enough to break their death stare and she didn't choose to renew it, just scanning him briefly and dismissively with one lovely raised eyebrow and then turned so her profile faced away from him, the 3/4 presentation of her back eloquent in its dismissal.

On the balcony Bond straightened, battling mixed feelings of surprise and amusement, trammelling down the slight flare of irritation at the loss of the connection. Unseen by his newest interest his mouth quirked in a small smile that he was hard put to disguise. Well - that had made her feelings abundantly clear.

But he had never been a man to give up easily, if at all, and especially when it was something he wanted and he had no intention of starting now. He rocked back on his heels, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets as he contemplated the long line of his newest interest's back, still firmly turned towards him. He would have to get a move on if he was to get to M's meeting on time. He turned to leave but indulged himself with one last glance and another swiftly hidden smirk at the upright line of her back. No, his newest target wasn't just interesting. She was a puzzle wrapped in honey gold skin and James was going to take great pleasure in unwrapping her all the way down to the bones.

He was looking forward to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Please review!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _As always - I own absolutely nothing......and all Brit spelling and "Briticisms" are come by naturally, because I am, for my sins, a Brit. And congrats to Skyfall for winning a BAFTA!_

The meeting with M lasted an hour, during which Bond vacillated between making the occasional pertinent (and sometimes impertinent) comment and half switching off, alert enough to be aware of what was going on but not really giving the discussion his full attention. The rest of his focus was divided between contemplating the various ways he could track down his newest interest's location in order to introduce himself, and the details of his next mission. As distracted as he was, the end of the meeting took him slightly by surprise and he was a heartbeat behind Tanner and the other section heads in heading for the door of M's office when M's clipped tone stopped him in his tracks.

"007. A word."

Ignoring the curious glances from the departing section chiefs he turned on his heel to face her. She nodded to the chair in front of her desk and curious, he crossed the office to take it, deliberately leaning back and stretching his legs out (the very picture of casual unconcern) as he waited for her to continue. 

There was silence in the office for a moment as M fixed him with her fierce, blue eyed stare. As usual at these meetings there was that very small part of Bond that felt like a school boy being pulled up in front of the headmaster. Not that he would ever allow M to have the slightest indication that that was how he felt. That would be tantamount to a capitulation in the constant battle of wills between the head of the Service and her most obstreperous 00 agent.

"Tanner mentioned that you showed some interest in our newest group of Fast track recruits this morning. In fact, he mentioned you seemed particularly interested in one recruit in particular."

Bond stared back, outwardly impassive, although inwardly rolling his eyes. Bloody Tanner - always telling tales out of school. 

"And? You've never objected when I have introduced myself to new recruits before."

M's lips thinned and her eyes narrowed as she regarded him. He leaned back in his chair and gave her a bland blue eyed stare back.

"That's because I have always been of the opinion that it is best for the junior members of the Service to be inoculated against you and the other 00's at the earliest possible moment. A small dose when they are still new usually reaps dividends and prevents any…difficulties later on."

"So," he shrugged. "I don't see what the problem is," he shifted in his chair to get up and her voice cracked out like a whip. "Sit down, Bond."

Nonplussed, he stilled in his seat. For a moment she regarded him and then sighed to herself. Reaching into a desk drawer she pulled out a standard issue personnel file and flicked it open.

"If Tanner hadn't mentioned which of our new recruits you seemed to have fixed your interest on, I wouldn’t be having this discussion with you. Who you choose to jump in and out of bed with is of supreme indifference to me unless it affects the operational efficiency of this Service and its agents. And usually, despite your best attempts, your extra curricular exploits only briefly affect the morale of a few individual agents before you move on. And as this is well known amongst the Service, those agents you do manage to bruise in your headlong rampage through the ranks are usually suitably supported by the ranks of those who have experienced your.....tactics....before." Her tone was faintly censorious and despite his studied insouciance, Bond found himself bristling internally. 

It was clear that M would rather be discussing anything else other than a thinly veiled analogy for her senior 00's sex life and for Bond it was just as excruciating an experience. It was like he imagined discussing sexual positions would be like with an elderly female relative. And it was never particularly pleasant to be compared to a disease against which early exposure led to immunity. He wasn't that bad. Or at least he didn't think so…

"However, this is an atypical case. And in this particular instance I am going to ask that you do not pursue your interest in the individual concerned. In fact, I am going to request that you actively avoid her unless introduced in a purely professional capacity and that any subsequent interaction with the individual concerned be limited to the bare minimum required to do your job. No innuendo Bond, no flirting, no seduction – in short, none of your normal tactics. Agent Rider is off limits to you in any capacity until you are told otherwise." M's tone was absolute; with a bite to it that Bond had learnt from long experience meant that she had made her final statement on the issue.

As M continued with her declaration Bond straightened until he was sitting bolt upright and frowned at his boss with an increasing mixture of curiousity and irritation. Rider – how did he know that name? And what was going on here that M would take such an actively protective stance over one measly fast track recruit? And why the hell should he stay away from her anyway? His eyes caught and narrowed on the file that M had pulled out of her desk draw, instincts borne of long experience telling him that the answers he wanted were enclosed within.

"M - with all due respect - _Ma'am_ \- you know that you have absolutely no right to dictate who I choose to interact with within the Service outside the confines of active missions and potential security issues." Bond responded, irritation at his Boss' high handed intrusion into his personal life bleeding into his response despite his best efforts. "So if you want me to stay away from Rider, you have to give me a reason. Who is this girl?" he inquired sharply, his irritation increasingly clear in his voice as he continued. "And why on earth does a fast track graduate warrant the personal interception of the head of the Service? It's not as if a brief encounter with me will break her."

M simply stared at him for a moment before continuing in a quieter tone. "While normally I would agree with you, 007, in this case you would be wrong. Your involvement with the individual concerned might just be the last straw that breaks the camel's back and I am keen to avoid that scenario occurring. I spent too much time recruiting Ms Rider to have her leave us within a few weeks of commencement."

"And as to who she is," M glanced down at the open file in front of her. "I had hoped to avoid showing you this, as Ms Rider is entitled to her privacy. But I know you, Bond. Even if I give you a direct order to avoid the girl you will find some way to get to her unless you genuinely agree with the reasoning behind my decision to request that you stay away. So here," she pushed the file across the desk to him and leaned back as she recited, obviously having memorised the contents some time ago.

"Alexandra Katherine Rider. Born to John and Helen Rider on 4 June 1990." Bond raised an incredulous eyebrow at that even as he scanned the supporting evidence in the file. 18? They were recruiting teenagers now? 

"Her parents both died in a plane crash when she was an infant and she was raised by her paternal uncle, Ian Rider." Bond's head came up from where he was perusing the file. That name was familiar - how did he know that name?

M gave a satisfied nod at the look on his face. "Ian Rider was Six. In fact he was a 00 - 004 to be precise. This was slightly before your time, but he was one of my first recruits in my position as M in London."

"Was?" Bond noticed the past tense. M frowned.

"Ian Rider was seconded out of Six at the PM's direct request to work for a small division in the Home Office about six years ago. I protested the order, as neither 004 nor myself were happy about it, but it was made very clear to both of us that the transfer was non negotiable. I heard very little about his activities post transfer as whatever project the Home Office was working on it kept everything strictly compartmentalised. Even from me." M frowned again.

"As you can imagine I was not best pleased that one of my best agents had been shanghaied out from under me. I did maintain an inquiry into the circumstances of the transfer but I was essentially stone walled. I heard nothing regarding 004's circumstances for a number of years and then four years ago I was informed that Ian Rider had been killed on active service."

Bond looked down at the file again. 4 years ago. She would have been 14. He turned a page and there was the standard personnel photo in glorious Technicolor. A woman, no – he corrected himself, a girl - who looked exhausted even in her photo, blond hair pulled back from pale skin, eyes tired and haunted, bottom lip cut and a massive contusion over the entire right side of her face. She was still beautiful, but it was a fragile, bruised beauty and a far cry from the fierce golden creature he had glimpsed in the atrium today.

"I did my best to make further inquiries into the circumstances of 004's demise, but it was made very clear to me from the highest level that I should cease and desist. Which brings us up to the present day."

Her voice changed ever so slightly from the dispassionate tone of one reciting facts to one with a distinct undercurrent of anger and Bond tore his gaze from the file photo to raise an eyebrow at his superior.

"Are you familiar with the recent debacle around Alan Blunt's so-called 'Office of Special Projects?'

Bond frowned. He had been out of the country on missions a great deal over the last few years (after Vesper it was agreed that the best tactic would be to keep him busy) but he definitely recognised the name. 

"Was that the Home Office sub unit which had been found to have been dabbling in domestic and overseas paramilitary operations?"

M nodded in confirmation. "That's the one. MI5 finally pulled it down when it became clear that it had essentially been setting itself up as an independent third Service. It had been set up under the previous Administration under quite a deep cover, international development I believe, and the current administration wasn't really aware that it was still running. However, on investigation our siblings at Five realised that it had its fingers in a rather horrifying number of pies and had done so for quite some time. God knows that kind of damage it did during its tenure." She paused to take a calming breath before continuing.

"As you know the Head of that unit was a man known as Alan Blunt. He was Six himself before he moved onto the Home Office, although he never reached any higher than deputy station head. It seems that Mr Blunt's plan was to set up a smaller version of the clandestine services with no oversight, so that missions could be taken at his own instigation and on his own recognisance without worrying about any trifling legalities. He was assisted in this endeavour by certain individuals, including a Clarissa Jones and others, whose stated briefs were to replicate the departmental structure of Six in miniature when ever possible. Accordingly, they had a Quartermaster, R&D, etc." Her voice flattened even further. Bond could tell they were coming to the meat of the issue now. "They also had field agents. And unfortunately for her, Ms Rider was one of those field agents. In fact, over a period of years she became Blunt's most successful field agent."

Bond inhaled quietly. She had been a field agent. How on earth was that possible? She was far too young. Any such attempt to recruit someone that young was not only blatantly illegal but also criminally stupid. The only logical explanation he could think of was that the dates in the file were wrong. He glanced sharply down at the photo again and checked the date of birth. Definitely 1990. So how old had that girl been when Blunt got his hands on her? He looked up again at M, his entire face asking the question.

"We understand from the testimony of Clarissa Jones that Ms Rider was forcibly recruited within a few days of her Uncle's death by Alan Blunt. There was an ongoing mission, during the execution of which Ian Rider was killed. For some reason Alan Blunt determined that the best person to continue the mission post 004's death was his 14 year old niece, Alex Rider."

Bond felt his mouth tighten. What the hell had been going on in Blunt's head? M continued, ignoring his expression. "We understand that Ian Rider had been essentially grooming his niece from almost her birth onwards in various skills that he thought she may find useful in adulthood. Considering his own personal skill set those skills were by their nature rather esoteric and Blunt considered that the skill set she had already mastered at the time of her uncle's death made her an ideal candidate for field agency status."

"She was _14_."

M nodded at the uncharacteristically open disgust in Bond's voice. "Indeed. However, this did not seem to be a deterrent to Blunt. We understand that Ms Rider's subsequent 'recruitment' and 'employment' was somewhat brutal and involved a considerable amount of blackmail in order to keep her under Blunt's control. There was a note in her file of a threat of deportation for Ms Rider's long term family housekeeper, essentially the only family member she had left, and threats of long term incarceration in a high security juvenile establishment if she ceased to toe the line."

Bloody hell. 

"But why would he bother? Surely he can't have been that keen to keep her. She was only 14 for god's sake."

M sighed, an unusual display of emotion from such an insular woman. "I believe Blunt had a number of motivations. One, while he may have recruited her as essentially cannon fodder in order to finish the mission her uncle was involved in it must have quickly become apparent to him just how talented Ms Rider actually is. And secondly, the appeal of an agent that no one would ever guess was an agent, someone who came across as a child, or at the very least as a completely forgettable teenager, would have been immense to some one like Blunt. Plus, I understand from the debriefing of Clarissa Jones, that while Ms Rider initially came across as a somewhat scrawny child, she very quickly blossomed into some thing very similar to the young woman who caught your eye today. Alan Blunt must have loved the possibilities inherent in a young, beautiful, seemingly vulnerable girl who would be able to get close to some of the worst in this world by whatever means necessary. And who would then have the skills to terminate those subjects if required to do so. She would have been perfect."

Bond felt his stomach clench at the implications of that bland description. His imagination, horribly sharpened by the realities of his long experience, shied away from considering those particular scenarios any further. It was enough for him that he could guess what Rider had experienced, he didn't need the details.

"Ms Rider had little or no training apart from a brief immersion with the SAS at the outset of her recruitment. Over the next four years she undertook an operational tempo that was frankly disturbing. She was nearly executed on a number of occasions, has been imprisoned more than once, and has been exposed to increasingly frequent life threatening scenarios as the period of her service has gone on. She has also suffered a number of traumatic injuries in the field, including a gun shot wound to the chest when she was 16 that required extensive cardiac surgery. However, despite all of this Ms Rider has been consistently successful in every one of her missions and was at times loaned out to the NSA and possibly other foreign agencies, although details of those secondments are at this time, not finalised."

Bond flicked through the file on his lap and noted the extensive list of code related missions associated with Rider's file, as well as the corresponding list of injuries. To experienced eyes it all led to one inescapable conclusion.

"M, this mission tempo is excessive, even for a fully trained 00." Bond commented bluntly. "And Rider certainly was not. I mean, if Blunt valued her so highly, why on earth would he try and maintain this kind of operational tempo? Even the best agent needs a certain amount of time to recoup between missions. If Rider continued at this rate she was going to slip up at some point, the question was simply when."

M glared down at her clasped hands for a moment before meeting Bond's questioning stare. "It is my belief that he had decided that Rider was ultimately disposable and that he was simply utilising her until she expired. He must have realised that the odds of maintaining his hold over the girl would decrease exponentially once she became an adult. And I understand that Rider's housekeeper was killed in an attack in London last year so that lever was gone. Based on those facts and my understanding of Blunt's mentality he would have seen Rider as a resource he was about to lose and so it would be no issue for him if she was killed on active service. So he was sending her out again and again in the knowledge that she would eventually, as you put it, fatally 'slip up'. At which point he would have merely lost a resource he would have lost in the near future anyway, and in such a way as to prevent Ms Rider raising any awkward questions upon her escape from his control."

Bond curled his lip in disgust. "So he was essentially sending her on suicide missions over and over again until one of them stuck."

M nodded. "I believe so." She sighed again. "It is a testament to Ms Rider's native ability and skills that she managed to survive this long. But if the issue had gone on for long enough the odds would have finally caught up with her."

She glanced at her hands again before looking up at Bond and continuing quietly. "I have now met Ms Rider on a number of occasions. I have found her to be a remarkable young woman and one worthy of anyone's respect. The fact that she has managed to maintain any sense of ethics or self after what has been done to her is in itself admirable. However, as to be expected there has been some damage. In Ms Rider's case the damage has manifested itself as a profound disassociation between her persona in the field and her native personality and also in an understandable distrust of those asserting authority over her person. She is also, by sheer lack of exposure, somewhat alienated from what would normally be her peer group."

"In other words she's a hell of a lot older in experience, than she is chronologically," Bond commented dryly. "I can't see that actually being a major disadvantage."

M's mouth thinned again. "It's not that simple, 007. In some ways Ms Rider, is as you would put it, considerably older than her biological age. In the field she has the skills, and the mind set of an experienced field agent. In fact the closest comparison I could make to the skill set she has developed is that of a 00." Bond raised an eyebrow at that surprising statement, requesting clarification.

"She has killed in the field on a number of occasions, including at least one target with whom she was previously sexually intimate. However, outside of the field - well that is a very different story." She fixed Bond with that gimlet stare again.

"Alex Rider, Alex Rider that is – not Agent Rider, is a very young girl. A young girl whose emotional stability has been ripped away from her again and again and who is, in many ways, not as emotionally developed as her peers. She is a _child_ , Bond, not a woman, despite what she might look like, and despite what impression her performance as an agent might give. Since she was 14 years old she has been brutalised and abused and emotionally manipulated by those who should have her best interests at heart. I sincerely believe that by trusting Six, by agreeing to be recruited she has held out the last olive branch to this country, and certainly this agency that she is ever going to be willing to extend."

She looked at Bond for a long moment before continuing in a level, matter of a fact tone. "I don't want her to regret that decision. I want her to have the time and the space to find her feet unmolested, to work out who she is and who she is going to be, for Alex to catch up with Agent Rider. If she can do that I sincerely believe that she will be one of the finest agents we will ever have had the privilege to utilise. If not, I think she will crash and burn and never recover. And after the way she has been treated by an agency of this government she deserves this time to regroup and she deserves the space to try and be that person and that agent that she was meant to be."

Bond glanced away from that fierce stare and back to Rider's picture for a moment before he looked back up at M.

"And you think that I would derail that process." It was a flat statement in Bond's most toneless voice.

"I think that you are a man with his own demons, whose attentions are difficult enough to handle if you are a psychologically stable young woman. I think at this stage of her life you would break her like a butterfly caught in a threshing machine."

Despite himself he winced internally at the image. M always did know how to hit to the heart of an issue. She continued on, ignoring the fleeting pain that she had noted passing across his face. This had to be said.

"I know that unless you have to be, you are not an intentionally cruel man, Bond. But in this case to become involved with Ms Rider at this time would be an act of cruelty on your part, even if you started out with the best intentions. So I am asking this of you, 007, leave Ms Rider alone. Let her build herself up without your interference so that she can find out who she really is. After what has happened to her I believe that she deserves that at least of us – don't you?"

He looked down at the file for one last time at that fine boned face with the achingly exhausted eyes before he closed it and pushed it back across the desk to M. "Fine," he commented shortly, ignoring the dull ache in his gut that he didn't want to examine too closely. "Fine. You have my word. As far as Ms Rider knows I won't even exist."

M nodded briskly. "Good. I appreciate it, Bond. And undoubtedly this will be best for both of you, mark my words."

Bond nodded a curt acknowledgement even as he pushed up from the chair and exited the office, feeling the weight of M's measuring gaze on his back. He suddenly had the beginnings of a headache and a bitter taste in his mouth. He needed a drink or a willing woman and if he couldn't get one he'd settle for the other. And if some part of him acknowledged that he was trying to shove the memory of a haunted gaze in a battered face to the back of his mind? Well, selective self awareness had always been a talent of his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Please, please review!_


	4. Chapter 4

_Please review! And for background knowledge Monckton is, to the best of my limited research, the base at which new entrants to Six undergo their basic training. But please feel free to correct me if I am wrong._

_ Monckton Base - somewhere in the South of England, Autumn 2008 _

The mud was as thick as slurry around her feet and her entire body was aching with the kind of bone deep tiredness that experience had taught her that only 8 hours in her bed would kill. The wind coming off the Channel was icy and with the wetness of her track suit from the last obstacle in the assault course it felt like she might as well be naked for all of the wind protection the material was providing. Her hands were raw under her gloves and the wet edges of her rough ponytail whipped across her wind burnt cheeks like a myriad of tiny red hot wires. 

Seriously, there were times when she wondered what the hell she was doing with her life. 

"Rider – get a move on, girl! This isn't a holiday camp!"

"Yes, Sarge!" 

Her legs were screaming, an incipient stitch threatening to erupt in her side, and when she exhaled out hard to combat it there was the burning in her lungs of tissue being utilised to the fullest. Every footfall had to be wrenched from the glutinous mud that was almost ankle deep along the course and just to top it all it was starting to rain, a fine, wet freezing cold drizzle that blanketed everything in a thin mist and made inhaling particularly unpleasant.

Yup, there really were times when she wondered what the hell she was doing with her life.

She forced her aching legs to go even faster, the heaviness of her limbs jarring the rest of her body uncomfortably each time her feet hit the ground. Last hill before home. Finding a final bout of energy she threw herself up the slope, long legs devouring the ground even as her breathing deepened and stabilised. There it was - the final obstacle, the cargo net. She knew how to handle that one.

Accelerating up the hill she leapt at the net, pushing off as she did so, landing like a spider a quarter of the way up. Then it was a mad scramble to the top, a stomach turning flip over the top and a slide and a leap to the ground, the shock hitting her legs as she landed. 10 Metres to the finish line. Her eyes fixed on the prize and she loped forward, somehow finding the strength deep down inside to push through despite the screaming of her muscles. 

There. Done.

The adrenaline drained out of her in one heady swoop and she slowed down to a jog, her legs trembling.

"Rider."

She turned her head at the curt acknowledgement from the grizzled ex-SAS trainer stationed at the finish line and cocked her head to the side in query.

He gave her a brusque nod. "Not bad. 20 seconds off your last time. Now go and wash up and hit the mess."

She smiled at him and without stopping set off at a slow jog for the barracks. Behind her she could hear the shouts of the other trainers as they castigated the rest of the recruits for their slowness. She was pretty sure that the fastest of them were still only about 3/4 of the way through the course. She'd slaughtered them. Unseen, her smile widened to an urchin, sharp edged grin. 

Yes – sometimes she wondered what the hell she was doing with her life. But not right now.

++++

Featherstone looked up through the window of the ancient 1950's portacabin that functioned as the instructors field office as Rider jogged easily past, obviously on her way back to barracks after finishing today's attack on the assault course. Despite the absolute shittiness of the weather and having just completed a fairly gruelling run she was evidently cheerful, a small smile hovering around those cupid bow lips, green eyes bright and alert. 

Featherstone signed inwardly. She really was unfairly attractive, especially now all the bruises and cuts that had decorated that sharp boned face when he had first seen it had long since faded. And the pure concentrated aggression with which she was tackling the more physical parts of the training course just made her even more desirable to the junior members of his staff. To the highly physical ex-special forces types that acted as instructors down here at Monckton it was a ridiculously seductive package. Thankfully they all had a considerable amount of self-control, and the fact that Rider was only 18 and that M would have their collective balls if anything happened to her newest protégé meant that the only overt signs of their collective madness were a few rather long looks at Rider's arse in her sweatpants when she went jogging by and a careful maintenance of eye contact when they had to interact with her directly. 

His musings were interrupted by a blast of cold, wet air as the door to the cabin slipped open and Johnston, his SIC and an ex-Hereford man slipped in, closing the door firmly behind him before he stomped over to ancient table that served both of them as a desk and dropped down on to one of the two chairs. He immediately pulled out a sheaf of paperwork from the pile of personnel folders on the desk and started entering figures into the relevant sections in his signature messy shorthand.

"Tea?"

A grunt was Featherstone's only answer as he moved over to the obligatory cheap Tesco kettle and mismatched storage jars of tea bags and sugar that every army office seemed to have as if by law. Once brewed he dumped a chipped mug on the ramshackle table in front of his grumpy SIC and took the other seat, leaning back and cradling his mug in his hands to warm them as he regarded his junior steadily.

"So…."

Johnston glanced up from his paperwork, a frown creasing his forehead. 

"So, what?"

Rolling his eyes internally at the other man's deliberate obliviousness Featherstone tapped the edge of the personnel folders with one hand. "Update please."

The older NCO sighed and shifted in his chair before answering.

"Blake and Cameron are doing as well as can be expected. Although Blake needs to work on his defensive driving if he ever wants to get assigned to close protection. Fellows' physical training scores are pretty appalling and her shooting is worse, but she's going to be a boffin, not a shooter so I think with a bit of effort she'll make the basic physical grade. Janaz is good behind the wheel but I would hate to be him if there was any close action work. He wouldn't last a minute. No natural aggression in that boy at all." 

"What about Lloyd?"

"Good lad that one. Likely."

Featherstone pursued his lips in consideration. That was high praise from his taciturn SIC. "Would you recommend him for further field training?"

"As long as he stays at this level, yes. He's no baby 00, but we do need some sane ones out there as well as the nutters."

"True enough. O'Neill?"

Johnston waved a hand in a see saw motion. "He's got potential. But he's not really applying himself as much as I would like. It's that whole Oxbridge thing - he thinks he's above all of this grubbing-in the-mud stuff."

"Hhmm. Well – we have a few more weeks to dissuade him of that notion. And if we can't?"

"He'll pass. But I would recommend an immediate posting to somewhere with a decent threat level. A few years of worrying about being blown up every morning will be good for his character. Otherwise he'll end up a politico from the get go and we don't need any more of those at headquarters."

The two men smirked at each other. O'Neill's life was about to get somewhat interesting for the next few years.

"Pawlak?"

"She'll do. Needs to work on her hand to hand though. But good attitude. She's another one of Q's isn't she?"

"Think so. I'll check."

"Singh?"

"Not bad. A steady improvement. He's got that karate background which really helps with his hand to hand. Needs to work on his shooting though."

"Is he a goer for further field training?"

"I think so. He's got the languages hasn't he?"

"Yes. Urdu, Punjabi, Farsi and classical Arabic I believe."

" _Nice._ Let's not waste that. I'll do some extra work with him on his shooting."

"Good."

"Stephenson? Smith?"

"Both of those are so so just now. Smith especially. If he doesn't pick up the pace in the next few days you may have to have a serious talk with him."

"Will do."

"Young?"

"Adequate. He needs to pull his finger out though if he wants us to recommend him for advanced field training."

"And finally. Rider...."

Johnston leaned back in his chair and picked up his mug to cradle it between his hands, mirroring Featherstone's body language as he regarded his Boss for a minute before he spoke.

"Yes....Rider."

"So?"

The older man shrugged. "What do you want me to say, Boss? You know as well I do how _she's_ getting on."

"Indulge me anyway. I've got to have something to report back to M."

They regarded each other for a moment more before the NCO capitulated. "Right, Rider."

The older man paused, obviously choosing his words carefully. "Boss - has Six ever had any female 00's?"

Featherstone smiled wryly and a little grimly. "Yes." He smiled that wintery little smile again at the look of surprise that passed across Johnston's face. "What – did you expect me to say - no? Remember what they say about the female of the species, Tom."

Johnston rolled his eyes at his boss's amused tone. "Oh aye. But still…it's not a job that I can imagine many women having the.....mindset....for."

Featherstone inclined his head in acknowledgement. "True. And it's certainly not that common. On average we get about one a decade and there hasn't been an active female 00 on the roster for about 15 years." He met the other man's gaze levelly. "I will be very surprised if that doesn't change within the next few years."

Johnston leaned back in his chair. "So you can see it too?" At his Boss's slow nod he exhaled explosively. "It's bizarre. I mean - don't get me wrong, it's as impressive as hell and she's completely wrecking my grading scheme for the other trainees, but I sometimes feel like I'm training three different people and all of them scare me for different reasons."

Featherstone nodded his understanding but gestured for his SIC to continue. He wanted the older man's unadulterated opinion before he started adding his two bits.

The other man leaned forward and put his mug down, counting off on his fingers as he spoke. "There is - let's call her Rider One, who seems to be the closest one to what you would expect an 18 year old kid to be." Featherstone noticed that Johnston still didn't categorise 'Rider One' as a 'girl' in the same slightly derisive tone that the majority of the other trainers did when faced with a young female trainee. 

Despite himself the older man's mouth quirked. "That kid - she's having a blast. Doesn't matter what physical thing you throw at her she just bounces through everything like a damned energiser bunny. I don't think she would understand the concept of 'quit' if you explained it to her. And she's so bloody cheerful all the time. I mean - it's quiet, don't get me wrong, she's not wandering around carolling, but the more physical crap I load on her the more upbeat she gets. I mean, I caught her out of hours last night, going over the obstacle course in the dark...." he chuckled quietly, shaking his head in amusement. "It's driving the other trainees insane. She's just so hyper fit that trying to keep up with her is killing them."

Featherstone chuckled as well. "Well, it's good motivation for them."

"Heh. Yeah. So - yeah. That kid is a great recruit. Bit young maybe, but really attentive and a quick learner. The kind of recruit that if this was Catterick I would be recommending her for a commendation and potentially for officer training. I would definitely be looking at her as a candidate for quick promotion."

"I can see all of that. So what worries you about 'Rider One'?"

"She's very – young - sometimes. If you move too quickly around her she tenses, if you try to touch her in any way other than from the front and with clear warning she flinches. She's not comfortable around men in large groups and she avoids them in social situations."

"So you noticed that. I wasn't too sure if you would." Featherstone commented quietly.

Johnston shrugged. "I've been paying attention. It's not that obvious – but it's there. And you put a young girl who looks like Rider and who is trained to the level that she is trained in situations where she is going to be in close contact with special forces who aren't paying attention? Just asking for trouble."

"True. Let's just say she has her reasons for that reaction and leave it at that." Johnston raised his eyes to meet Featherstone's steady grey eyed gaze, and after a moment he nodded. He didn't need to know and he didn't think he actually wanted to know. He'd seen enough of the crap that one human could do to another over the years that he didn't want to know the details of what the kid had been through. It was obviously in the past and he couldn't do anything to fix it, so the best thing for him to do was to ignore it and just continue to treat the kid the same as he had been doing so far.

"Anything else?" His Boss prompted him.

"She doesn't know how to quit. I know I was joking about it earlier but I genuinely do not think she knows how to stop until she finishes what she starts. You have to almost physically restrain her. And while that's better than the alternative that kind of blind determination is likely to get her killed in the field when someone who's willing to take a step back would survive."

"Fair point."

Johnston shifted in his chair. "So 'Rider One'- I'm more scared for her, than of her, but she's still pretty much a force of nature. 

"And 'Rider Two?'"

Johnston grimaced. "Have you seen that look she gets whenever she's really into something? That intense focus? It's as if she's determined to take in absolutely anything we can teach as though it's all going to be taken away tomorrow. She's eating it all for breakfast. And when I introduced them to the armoury....let's just say I know a hell of a lot of men on this base that would give a month's salary for Rider to look at them the way she looks at a gun. Three months if she was prepared to handle them the way she handles the weaponry."

Featherstone smiled at the exaggeration, but appreciated the hyperbole for what it was - an attempt to make a somewhat serious subject more palatable. "So she's somewhat…intense?"

"That's an understatement. And she's almost frighteningly competent. She was unfamiliar with a few of our standard issue but even those she picked up fast. And the ones she knew already?" He shook his head. "An 18 year kid should not be able to do what she does with those. And she doesn't have any tells."

Featherstone raised an eyebrow in a request for clarification.

"When she shoots, I mean. All of the others had the normal reaction to shooting for the first time – lack of adjustment for recoil, wincing when the gun fired, blinking…you know – the normal."

"But she doesn't?"

Johnston shook his head ruefully. "Not a single one. Everything anticipated and adjusted for as though she's been doing this for 20 years. Which is frankly unnatural in an 18 year old kid in this country. If she had grown up with guns abroad I could understand it, but there was no record of that on her file." The last was noted with the slightest hint of a questioning intonation, just enough that Featherstone could choose to expand if he wished or leave the unspoken question unanswered. He chose the later, carefully maintaining his blank expression as Johnston paused for him to interject if he was going to.

Correctly interpreting the lack of response Johnston merely gave his boss a slight eye roll before continuing, his expression detached and thoughtful as he recounted his findings. "She's exceptionally good at long distance target shooting. I've got her on the L96 sniper rifle, but I might see if I can cadge a L115A3 to see what she can do with that. I'm seriously considering setting up some kind of condensed version of the Sniper Wing course for her if we can squeeze in the time."

Featherstone raised an eyebrow at that. For his normally taciturn-to-the-point-of-negativity SIC this was almost the equivalent of gushing. Certainly he couldn't remember the last time when Johnston had considered going out of his way to rustle up that level of extra training for a recruit going through basic agent training.

"What about hand guns?"

Johnston rubbed his fist across his lips as he considered. "She wasn't really familiar with the Browning, but she picked it up pretty quickly. I asked her about what she may have fired before," he paused at his superior's faintly disapproving look. Johnston knew very well that he wasn't cleared to have access to Rider's history before Six. "Boss – it was relevant information, I needed the context to work out what to bring her up to speed on."

"Fair enough," Featherstone conceded after a moment's consideration. "But seriously, Tom, don't pry. No more than the very basics that you need to know."

Johnston nodded in capitulation. "I got it Boss. But in relation to the handguns….she said that she was familiar with the Beretta 9, but her primary training had been with the Walther PPK." Featherstone pursued his lips at that. He wasn't familiar with every detail of Rider's file (he doubted that anyone other than M was) but the PPK was not standard military issue, but was rather used in situations where concealed carry was considered preferable. So civilian law enforcement, general civilian carry (where permitted) and professional work, where a wet work artist needed to make a quick shot and then re-holster the gun concealed. 

He somehow doubted that Rider had been trained in any civilian capacity.

"Right. What's her accuracy like with the pistols?"

"Solid centre mass 8 times out of 10. Whoever trained her, and no Boss - I didn't ask – taught her to double tap. On the head shots she's hitting about 7.5 out of 10 on average. So there's still room for improvement." 

Double tap. So whoever had taught her to shoot hadn't bothered to faff around with shooting to wound or any of that nonsense. Which meant at least they didn't have to break her of any bad habits.

"So I'm guessing you don't have to worry about any squeamish crap about shooting to wound with her then?"

Johnston smiled slightly. "Rather the opposite, Boss. Whoever taught her to shoot never bothered with shooting to wound. In fact when I mentioned it she gave me a very old-fashioned look." 

"Fair enough." In Featherstone's opinion 'shooting to wound' was a load of crap anyway. Nine times out of ten in their line of work you would end up having to double tap the bastard eventually. And your chances of missing were far higher if you aimed for a leg or an arm. Like the majority of those in the armed services Featherstone believed that if you drew your gun you better be prepared to use it, and if you used it you shouldn't fanny about. A target with two in the chest and one in the head was unlikely to subsequently get up and shoot you in the back.

"So - you're going to work with on her on the pistol side?"

"Yeah. She mentioned that it had been a few years since she had done any serious shooting so if she's shooting at that level of accuracy now, after all the time off...." Johnston shrugged. "I bet I can get her up to at least 90% accuracy, if not higher on the pistols by the time the course finishes. And I really want to see what she can do with the L115A3 while I've got the chance."

"Right." Featherstone mentally considered for a moment, slotting all of what his SIC had just provided him with into his overall plan for Rider's training, adjusting as he went along.

"What about the technical side? Any reports from Sanjeep?"

Johnston nodded. "He likes her. Says that's she's got, to quote "mad hacking skills", unquote. He's pretty happy with that side of her development. Happy enough that he's setting up an advanced curriculum for her on that side of the fence."

Featherstone snorted in amusement. "So it looks like Q Branch might finally get their dream of a technologically adept field agent at last."

Johnston smiled in return. "Maybe. She's not as familiar with the communications tech, though. Never used the radios or the transmitter set up before. But Sanjeep says she picks things up pretty quickly and that she's already bugging him for extra briefings on all the kit, so I'm not that worried about that side of her training."

From the briefing M had given him Featherstone wasn't that surprised by Rider's lack of familiarity with the communications tech. By the sound of it most of Rider's previous field work had been almost totally unsupported. She certainly hadn't had Q branch's incessant directions to contend with while she went about her work. Featherstone genuinely didn't know whether to envy her the autonomy (and the peace and quiet) or to feel furious on the young agent's behalf that she had been essentially cut loose and left to (often literally) sink or swim without proper training or support. No wonder she was gulping down the training like a baby bird with its mouth open.

"Languages?"

"She's fluent in French, German and Spanish. Think she has a bit of basic Italian as well. Once she gets based at headquarters M has arranged for her to receive some intensive tuition to get fluent in that. I also understand that the kid is keen to take advantage of Six's arrangement with Oxbridge to start studying for her undergrad. She hasn't indicated exactly what she wants to study but I will be pretty surprised if there's not some language component to her degree."

"Yes. She would be bloody stupid not to take advantage of the resource. And if there is one thing that's coming across very clearly about Rider is that she's definitely not stupid."

Johnston smiled wryly. "You got that right Boss. I admit I was a bit surprised when she first turned up - I mean she's very young and let's be honest - she looks like the kind of girl you see on the cover of a magazine, not the kind that's an embryonic shooter." He shook his head in baffled amusement. "But by god, are they right sometimes about first impressions being misleading." 

Featherstone snorted a laugh.

"In this case – absolutely. But then I had the advantage over you before Rider turned up. M briefed me, and I've read an edited version of her file, so I was more prepared for the disparity between what she looks like and how she acts. But it'll certainly be useful if she does undercover work. If she acts like a girly girl, well…with her looking like that –no one will ever suspect that she's an agent."

"True. And she's bright enough that she'll be able to take full advantage."

"Absolutely. So - any concerns with 'Rider 2'?"

Johnston shrugged. "She's mono focused. But that could just be a side effect of her attitude to the training. She needs to relax a little so that she can improve her ability to multi task. But it's more that intensity of hers - she needs to learn to disguise it. Otherwise it's going to be a vast flashing sign to our kind of people if she's undercover in the field."

"Hhm. I’ll discuss it with her. She may relax a little anyway once the training tempo goes down, but we'll see. So - you've updated me on Rider One and Rider Two. What about Rider Three?"

For a moment his SIC looked almost troubled and he uncharacteristically hesitated before he replied.

"Rider Three….," Johnston paused again, clearly being careful with his words, finally taking refuge in the bland terms of military obfuscation. "Rider Three has demonstrated a number of the necessary characteristics that would lead me to consider that she should be recommended for advanced field agent training as soon as possible, with the long term aim of inserting her into the 00 program at the appropriate juncture." Johnston spoke quietly; without mumbling or hesitance but Featherstone could clearly hear the conclusions that his SIC had already drawn lurking underneath the polite facade of military reserve.

Rider 'Three' was a stone cold killer, hidden behind the face and figure of a swimwear model.

And somehow, that didn't surprise Featherstone in the slightest. 

_Please review!_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _For all those who hope Rider and Bond are about to jump into bed together -sorry! We have a way to go before that may happen. Apologies if this seems like a somewhat transitional chapter- if it's any consolation I already have chapter six written and ready to post.....oh - and for those unfamiliar with Alex Rider canon, in short at one point in the character's chequered history he was forced to attend what was an essentially an assassins training school. I am assuming the experience would have left its mark..._

M sighed as she finished reading yet another file of the seemingly endless pile of paperwork that flowed across her desk with unceasing regularity. The sun may have set on the British Empire but somehow over the course of M's long career in the Service she had noticed the logical fallacy that the less territory Britain directly controlled the more paperwork the Service tended to generate.

Now to her consistent chagrin the paperwork involved with her position – even with the able assistance of Tanner - cut viciously into the amount of time she had available for the other, more operationally focused matters. She glanced briefly at her watch and considered starting another file before her next appointment.

However, just as she was reaching for the familiar buff cardboard there was a polite beep from the intercom.

"Yes Tanner?"

"Featherstone's here to see you as requested, Ma'am."

M straightened at her desk, aborting her reach for the next folder on her ever increasing pile. This _should_ at least be more interesting than paperwork.

"Send him in, Tanner," she responded.

"Yes ma'am."

Before Tanner had even finished his sentence the door opened and Featherstone appeared in the doorway, the narrowness of the door only emphasising the width of his shoulders. As he stalked towards her desk she allowed herself a second of purely feminine indulgence at the width of those shoulders and the still upright military carriage of the man, despite the fact that she knew he was well into his sixties by now. She had known him a hell of a long time and he was still a fine looking man, still a lion, although a far more grizzled one than he had been when they first met.

His eyes flicked up to meet hers and she nodded in acknowledgement, lifting her chin to indicate that he should take a seat. While he settled himself, she pulled yet another stack of folders out from a pile on the corner of her desk and piled them in front of her, wrists resting easily on top of the stack, fingers steepled before she focused back on her veteran Training Officer.

"Featherstone," she greeted him, her tone considerably warmer than she ever allowed most of her staff to hear. Especially Bond. But Featherstone had known her from long before she ever became M and consequently in M's mind had earned more than a little leeway in her dealings with him.

"Ma'am." He smiled slightly at her, just a quirk of the lip, his eyes warm, and she knew that he too was indulging himself in a rare moment of nostalgia for when the two of them had been younger with their faces set against the world. God - sometimes she really missed the simplicity of the Cold War. 

But enough wool-gathering.

She indicated the folders piled under her elbows with a tap of her fingers and leaned back in her chair. "So – the new recruits. I have of course, read your reports, but if you can give me the usual, John – and leave Rider for last."

"Yes, Ma'am." Featherstone shifted in his chair and began.

It took just over twenty minutes for Featherstone to report on the latest batch of Six recruits and for the two of them to discuss the Training Officer's recommendations in relation to postings for the new graduates, or for further training if he believed that it would be beneficial. While M always had the final say as to where the trainees actually ended up, she had developed a healthy respect for Featherstone's recommendations over the years and seldom went against his opinion, although she did occasionally tweak his suggestions somewhat depending on the operational needs of the Service at the time. This time it was only nuances that needed shifting, such as where exactly to post O'Neill in order to knock some of the Oxbridge arrogance out of him (Somalia seemed like a good bet), and the necessity of delaying Singh's further training for a while due to an urgent need for a competent translator to be sent to Pakistan on a matter of some sensitivity. However, these tweaks were a matter of minutes to make and M waited patiently as Featherstone noted down her orders in his ever present notebook, to be passed on to the relevant departments for formal distribution to the trainees in question. After all, heaven forbid that they might actually try and sidestep the bureaucracy that really ran Six. That way lay madness and both of them were far too experienced operators to allow themselves to become mired in that particular sort of shit storm.

Finally they reached the end of the list and M leaned back in her chair again, steepled fingers tapping against each other.

"Rider, if you please now, John. And full brief if you have it- all the details." 

She listened as he laid it out for her, the economical words of a succinct man who nevertheless painted a detailed picture. It was a picture of a young woman who was fiercely accomplished in many areas, but underdeveloped in others, a crack shot who had killed and who would kill again if necessary with little remorse, but flinched almost imperceptibly whenever she was touched, an embryonic tactician who shied away from the leadership positions that came so naturally to her, a girl who, in some ways, was born to be a player in their brutal game of international one-upmanship, but, on the other hand, was very young, and very fragile and was holding onto her balance and her stability with a desperate grip.

When he had finished there was a moment's silence in the room, as though the air was holding its breath waiting for her judgement. 

"Recommendation?"

Featherstone stirred slightly in his seat. "We can't afford to lose her," he stated bluntly. "She's got too much - too much of everything really. If we let her go she's going to end up in prison, dead or working for either our competition or the private sector within the year. And whatever option she ends up with, well - they'll take hell of a lot less care with her than we will."

M leaned forward, eyes intent on her Chief of Agent Training.

"I understand that you want to look after the girl, John, I really do. And that you can see her potential so very clearly. After all that's one of the things that makes you so very good at your job. And I've met Ms Rider a number of times, and yes it would be a damn shame if she had even more of a bad run of luck than she already has. But I have to be _realistic_ about this, John. We don't operate a half-way house for bad luck cases. We develop assets. Assets that we use to defend this country. So I need to know -can she take it? Does she have what we need? Or is the damage already done just too much? Will she bend, John or _will she break?"_

There was a moment of silence while Featherstone studied the carpet in contemplation. Then he raised his head to meet his Boss's gaze calmly, the slightest of smiles quirking one side of his mouth.

"Oh –she'll bend, ma'am. I'll make sure of it," his smile thinned, darkness hovering in the turn of his lips. "Even if I have to break her first, myself." 

For a second M just stared at him and then nodded, a sharp, choppy motion, her hands already gathering up the mess of paperwork now spread across her desk.

"See that she does. And Featherstone – make no mistake of this. I want you to be directly responsible for Ms Rider's training." He opened his mouth to interrupt, to confirm that he would of course oversee the young probationary agent's training closely, as he did all his assets, but she cut him off impatiently with a wave of her hand.

"No, I mean that I want you to _personally train her._ " She paused in her tidying, fixing him with one of her famous gimlet stares. "We both know where this girl is likely to end up if she survives long enough, so why not give her the best possible start? And who better to train a future double-0 than one of the very few that managed to actually survive long enough to retire from the field due to age?"

Her eyes were warm on him now and he shrugged and nodded slightly, accepting both the command and the implicit compliment without any further protestations. It would be a bit of a strain to fit the amount of personal training Rider would need on an ongoing basis into his already busy schedule but he would make it work. In fact, now that he thought about it he was going to enjoy this. It had been some time since he had personally trained anyone, and even then it had usually been experienced agents needing a brief immersion in a specialist area before heading into the field. He had never before had the opportunity to train someone personally right from scratch and certainly not someone as naturally talented as Rider. He smiled inwardly - this might actually be rather good fun. 

Although admittedly, Rider might not find it so. But from what he had seen so far of the kid? She would suck it up and deal.

"Yes ma'am. Would you like regular reports?" 

She favoured him with a brief almost-smile, even as she waved a hand in dismissal. "Yes, once every 3 months please, Featherstone. Oh, and John? Let Tanner know I need to see him."

"Ma'am."

He nodded again politely and turned to make his way out of the office, his mind already constructing and disregarding training scenarios for his newest protégée. Then and there he made up his mind. Rider was dangerous now, but by the time he finished training her....unseen by anyone, the smile on his face grew wider - she was going to be hell on wheels.

And once she was unleashed? God had better save anyone who'd be foolish enough to get in her way – because no one else would be able to. 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Alex blinked as she moved from the cool brightness of a London bathed in winter sunlight into the artificial illumination of the foyer of Vauxhall House, eyes automatically adjusting behind the lenses of her polarised sunglasses. 

She was aware of the instant scrutiny of the many quietly competent men and women seemingly randomly dotted around the foyer, suit jackets cut loosely to disguise what was undoubtedly a very wide variety of weaponry and hastily pulled off her glasses so her face could clearly be seen, stashing them in her coat pocket even as she extracted her security pass from the same pocket and clipped it onto her lapel. Sometimes the alarm bells she seemed to automatically set off with her very body language to people who knew what to look for were a pain in the arse - and certainly something she was going to have to work on further if she wanted to make a successful career out of being generally unnoticeable. As it was, it seemed like every trained paramilitary type could see a placard above her head emblazoned with "Danger-Will Robinson!" Which was not helpful - at all. And certainly not the kind of attention she wanted to attract. 

With an inward sigh she shoved the issue into the mental filing cabinet marked "Issues to work on" (it was already bulging at the seams) and made her way up to Security, waiting patiently in the queue to reach the checkpoint. 

It was her first day back being permanently stationed at Headquarters since completing the Initial Agent Training Course down at Monkton. The rest of her intake had finished a few days before her, the Powers that Be having decreed that she should spend an extra few days undertaking a highly condensed version of the Army's Sniper Wing Course before reporting back to Six. Alex certainly hadn't been in the mood to complain. Any training was good training in her book, and although some of the parts of the course had brought back memories she would rather suppress _(Venice, and the light reflecting off the canals, the smell of damp so pervasive it became unnoticeable, the brutal recoil of the sniper rifle against her shoulder and the all-smothering fear that today would be the day she would fail to make the grade, would be despatched with a bullet in the back of the skull, just another nameless corpse floating in the canals....)_ the overall experience had been good. And extremely valuable. She was back up to a near 100% accuracy again with both long distance and short range weaponry and the various handguns she had been "refreshed" on had once again settled into a comfortable familiarity in her hand.

She had reached the front of the security queue by now, the coolly assessing eyes of the veteran Security Guard raking over her neutrally. 

"Yes?"

She pulled her Orders out of her pocket and smoothed out the crumpled paper in front of him. He glanced down briefly to scan them before re-initiating eye contact, his gaze slightly warmer and she risked a hesitant smile.

"Good morning – my name's Alex Rider. I was tasked to report here at 9.30 today. I understand that I'm being stationed here permanently and I think some one was supposed to meet me to get things sorted?" Her voice rose questioningly at the end of her sentence and after a further intense scrutiny of her face, credentials and Orders the Security Guard gave a brief nod and ran a finger down a list of names on a check-list he briefly pulled out from under his desk before replacing it.

He smiled when he looked back up at her, his face relaxing. "Welcome back to Six, Ms Rider."

She smiled a little wider at the now genuine warmth behind his sentiment. It was amazing what realising that you weren't about to shoot up the place could do for a person's attitude. "Thank you. Has anyone said where I should go now?"

"Well, I can see here that you've been assigned a mentor. So I'll just get in contact with them now and then they should be down to collect you in just a few minutes."

"A mentor? Is that standard practice?"

"Has been for the last few years. Especially with the Graduate Intake. We found it useful for all parties if the new recruits had someone they could ask all the really stupid questions of so they didn’t go around disturbing people who are trying to do the _real_ work."

Despite her best intentions of remaining professional his dry rejoinder startled a bark of laughter from her. "And I suppose you would be one of those people who do the _real_ work around here?"

The Guard's eyes twinkled at her as he smiled, "I couldn't possibly comment, Ms Rider. Now - take a seat in the waiting area over there and your mentor will be down to meet you in just a bit."

She smiled at him and obediently sat down on the overly designed couch as indicated. Like all couches of its kind it had probably been created by some mad Scandinavian with the aim of maximum design kudos and minimum comfort for the poor unfortunates who had to sit on it. If she was a suspicious person (and she really, really was) she would say that it had been placed in the reception area in order to inflict the maximum psychological trauma on awaiting interviewees in order to soften them up before the main event. But she had spent hours ensconced on far worse perches than this and despite the discomfort, after a few minutes she found her mind drifting back to the aftermath of her first ever visit to this building. Occasionally, she still had to pinch herself to remember that that visit had only been five months ago. Five months ago when her life had been out of her control and the very foundations of who she was had felt rocky underfoot. But now - she glanced around at the quietly bustling lobby with its discrete armed presence - she finally felt like she might be taking her first steps on solid ground. 

Just five months – but it felt like a lifetime ago already......


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Apologies for the lack of Bond in this one - he will be sticking his nose in from the next chapter onwards. Please review - I would love to know if people are still reading this! Thanks - S._

Chapter 6

_Vauxhall Bridge House – July 2008_

By the time the petite dynamo who had identified herself as "M" had arranged for one of her aides to usher Alex out of her office (where the older woman had just turned Alex's life upside down), the young agent was starting to feel the cumulative effects of the last few days – actually, the last few months - pulling inescapably at her body. The pain from the injuries incurred on her last mission was a low-lying drag on her energy levels and the adrenaline that had carried her so far was finally failing as her body reluctantly started to give in. 

So she couldn't summon the energy to protest when M's aide, a tall, lean man with a greying head of hair cut in a military-short back and sides, and clear, perceptive blue eyes, who introduced himself with a simple, "Call me McLaren - everybody else does," obviously amended whatever her original schedule had been intended to be after a brief, searching look and instead politely chivvied her back towards the medical suite she had been released from just a few hours earlier. She did attempt to make a token protest when they re-entered the medical wing, but he stopped her protestations in their tracks with a politely raised hand before she could even start, his expression firm but with a distant kindness that she found herself responding to, almost despite herself. There hadn't been much kindness in her life since Jack had been murdered and she had a sudden shaming impulse to just lean against McLaren's immaculately suit-clad shoulder and cry. 

Some sign of just how close she was to the edge must have shown in her face, for his expression softened a little further and he gave her a gentle push towards one of the crisply starched hospital beds in a private side room as he spoke.

"Ms Rider, M has tasked me with ensuring that you are successfully assimilated into Six's labyrinth bureaucracy and with dealing with any other issues that you may have. However..." He paused, looking down at her with an abstract concern. "The next stage of the process is quite technical and as I have been fully briefed on what you have been up to for the last few weeks I am aware that you must be, even if you are admirably not demonstrating it, quite exhausted. Therefore, I think it would be better if you logged some hours of shut -eye first, so as to be in the best frame of mind to engage with the various things we have to cover. Sue, here…" He nodded to one of the nurses who smiled back at Alex gently. "… will wake you up in around 5 hours, and then we will proceed with things from there."

She was so tired that she could hardly bring herself to protest, but she still felt as though she should attempt to soldier on. She wasn't weak and she would be damned if the first impression Six had of her was that she had to be _coddled_. From somewhere inside she summoned a final burst of energy and engaged most of it in putting on a credible impression of alertness before she responded. 

"Sir… _McLaren_ ," she corrected at his quelling look. "Please don't inconvenience yourself on my account. If you need me to, we can continue right away. After all, if we have to reschedule for later, won't everybody's scheduling be thrown off? I would hate to cause any further disruption, and if I'm meant to meet with people now...?" She trailed off at the firm shake of his head and the amused but disapproving raise of his eyebrow. 

"This is Six, Ms Rider. One of the very first things you will have to learn about us is that we expect every plan we ever make to be subject to change, and operate accordingly. So I am _quite_ sure that the various people we need to meet with will be happy to re-arrange, and to meet with us once you have got some sleep and are in a better position to listen to what they have to tell you." He stared down at her reprovingly and she met his gaze calmly, trying not to let how absolutely exhausted she was peep through. For a second they stared at each other, each waiting for the other to metaphorically blink, and then a small, almost approving, smile quirked at the edges of McLaren's lips and his whole demeanour softened.

"Ms Rider. There is really no need for you to see those individuals right at this moment, I promise you." She opened her mouth to respond and he gently waved a hand in negation as he continued. "They can wait, and no-one will think any less of you for the delay." For a second he just gazed down at her, something much more personal lurking in his eyes than the stern, assessing stare of just a few minutes earlier, and when he continued his tone was softer, with an undercurrent of carefully restrained warmth. "I understand that you have been fighting on your own for a long time, Ms Rider. Far, far longer than you should have. And that, like any soldier fighting solo, you have had to learn to rely only on yourself, and never ask for help. And in the field, that is an admirable trait, and one that should be encouraged. But this is Six, Ms Rider, and you are one of _us_ now. And here, in this building, you are entitled to demand whatever assistance you require to ensure that you can perform your duties to the very best of your ability. At times that assistance may take the form of advice or training, or logistics, or weaponry. Or at times, that assistance may take the form of the other members of Six recognising what you need in order to function to the best of your ability before you do, such as ensuring that you are fully medically assessed post mission, or, in this case, ensuring that you at least _attempt_ to get some sleep. So let me, on behalf of Six, assist you by recognising what you need before you do, and please, take this opportunity to get some rest."

It was the quiet compassion under his calm exterior that finally broke down her resistance, and she nodded soundlessly, swallowing down the lump that had suddenly risen in her throat. Abstractly she realised that she must be truly exhausted, as her emotions were far too close to the surface for her liking. He smiled slightly at her, his expression understanding, before he nodded to the nurse again and turned on his heel to walk away. "I'll see you in a bit, Ms Rider. In the meantime - get some sleep!"

Faced with a direct order that was actually sensible, Alex felt she had no choice but to obey and lie down, before she fell down. She endured the brief questioning from the nurse about any medication she was currently on, swallowed the pain killers and the rather disgustingly sweet electrolyte drink she was given without complaint, pulled off her boots, jeans and hoodie and was asleep even before the nurse dimmed the lights in the little room and softly shut the door behind her as she left.

The next thing Alex knew was a voice that quietly but insistently called her name, jerking her out of her slumber into full wakefulness like a rocket, and leaving her sitting upright in the surprisingly comfortable bed, looking around wildly, her adrenaline spiking. For a second, she had no idea at all where she was, and then it all came back to her - the revelation that Blunt had been arrested while she was in the field, the last Op where she was convinced that this would be the one where her luck ran out despite the sudden possibility of eventual freedom from Blunt's control, the unexpected save as the grimy underground hideout she was being held captive in was abruptly full of Six personnel, the flight back to the UK by military cargo plane surrounded by watchful agents, the revelation that the organisation that she had been working at the behest of for so many years had been illegal (and not in any way authorised by Six), the overwhelming relief at the realisation that she was free, and then the crashing consequences of what that freedom could mean. Then the discomfort as her injuries were patched up at Six, her interview with M, the startling information that she would never have to worry about money ever again, and finally the kindness in McLaren's eyes as he insisted that she get some sleep before she collapsed.

In retrospect, it was no wonder he had insisted. The whole thing had been a bit much for anyone, even a spy prodigy like herself. But she couldn't afford to try to absorb it properly right now, or she would be sitting on this bed for hours, and she doubted McLaren had the time to wait while she indulged in an existential life crisis. 

She gathered her scattered thoughts and looked over to the door where the nurse was patiently waiting for Alex to notice her. She was obviously well experienced in dealing with twitchy field agents, as she had made no attempt to touch her patient, but had used her voice alone to rouse Alex from her quasi-coma. It was probably a good thing that other woman hadn't tried to come any closer, Alex reflected ruefully, as just now her reflexes were so on edge that she would probably have sent the civilian flying across the room before she became truly conscious. 

"Hi – Ms Rider is it?"

Alex rubbed her eyes sleepily, and shuddered, abruptly feeling the grime and dirt etched into her skin from the last few weeks' adventures now that she was a bit more _compos mentis_. 

"Yeah. But please, call me Alex."

The nurse's smile widened. "And as you may have heard Agent McLaren mention earlier, I'm Sue." She bustled closer to the bed. "Agent McLaren is coming by to pick you up in about 25 minutes. I was wondering if you would like a chance to freshen up first?"

"I would _love_ to," she breathed fervently. "But I don't have any spare clothes, or toiletries - or anything really."

"That's not a problem." The nurse airily waved aside Alex's objection and reached into the cabinet beside the bed and pulled out a selection of clothing. "We keep a vast array of sweats and stuff here in medical – people here are always getting involved in things that wreck their clothes and end up needing temporary replacements. Here." She finished compiling the stack of garments and handed it over to Alex who took the slightly unwieldy pile gingerly as she slipped out of the bed. Sue pointed over to a door in the corner of the room. "Shower and toilet in there and everything you need should be either in that pile or in the bathroom cabinet." There was a strong element of command in the gentle push she gave the younger woman towards the en-suite, and obediently Alex padded over to the doorway. It would be lovely to get clean.

Twenty minutes later Alex was just doing up the laces of her boots as there was a polite knock on the door to her temporary room and McLaren's head appeared around the opened door. He took in her freshly washed and Six-sweats-clad form with a faintly approving smile, which widened as she stood up.

"Feeling better?" he enquired. 

"Much better, thank you."

"Excellent. Well, our first order of business is to get you fed and then afterwards I can pass you off to your first appointment. Does that sound like it would be a satisfactory plan?"

Alex's mouth abruptly filled with drool at the very mention of food and her stomach rumbled audibly as it reminded her that it had been over 18 hours since she had last eaten and even then it had been a hunk of stale bread and some cheese of extremely dubious provenance. McLaren had obviously caught the protests of her stomach because when she looked back up at him there were the edges of a carefully bitten back smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. "Some food would be lovely, Sir, if it's not too much trouble."

"No _Sir_ , Ms Rider. Just McLaren is fine," he reminded her gently. "But of course it's not too much trouble. Feeding our people is why we have a Mess in the first place."

With no further fuss McLaren led her out of the medical suite, her dirty clothes helpfully bundled up in a small backpack provided (again) by Sue. 

Lunch (as, to Alex's surprise, it was still only two pm) was still being served in the staff Mess, (Six betraying its military background by its insistence in sticking to 'Mess', when any other organisation would use ‘Restaurant’) and McLaren watched with amusement as Alex devoured a rather excessive portion of perfectly edible lasagne, with a small side salad as a concession to healthiness and a rather delicious sticky toffee pudding for dessert. She noticed his amusement but ignored it, despite her initial blush. She was a growing girl still, this was the first decent meal she had been able to have in a relaxed environment for weeks and her past experiences had taught her all there was to know about taking advantage of the opportunity to eat properly when it was possible. When you were never too sure as to when your next meal would be available, or whether you would be well enough to eat it, you learned to take advantage when you could.

She was aware that the two of them were garnering some interested glances, the combination of McLaren, who she guessed was quite senior, and herself, a stranger who was at best a very _junior_ recruit, being unusual enough to pique the curiosity of their fellow diners. And it was after all, Six's own cafeteria - everyone eating there was pretty much a professional spook by job description, so a little curiosity was to be expected. But she followed McLaren's silent lead and ignored them, humming contentedly as she chased after the last bite of the sticky toffee and the remnants of the accompanying cream with her spoon. 

"Done?"

"Yes, thank you."

He smiled at her and deftly loaded her dishes back onto the tray as he brushed away her attempts to help and bussed it over to the hatch waiting to receive it before he led her out of the sunlit Mess into the endless maze of Six's corridors.

She automatically tried to memorise the floor plan of the building as they stalked through it, but despite her momentary respite, she was aware that she wasn’t really firing on all cylinders, bone deep fatigue, her injuries and residual stress reducing her ability to process her location to the level that she would have preferred. And anyway, it was a short trip - after only a few minutes and two flights of stairs they arrived at a nondescript wooden door marked “G-32,” where McLaren immediately knocked and then entered without waiting for a response.

The suite of rooms inside was divided into an outer office and an inner, the outer office large enough to fit a number of desks, all of which were occupied and overflowing with paperwork and file folders – the very definition of organised chaos. At their entry five heads came up to scan their faces and more than one hand twitched towards a desk drawer (where Alex was willing to bet something more lethal than a stapler lurked) before four heads dismissed them as any kind of threat and bent back to their work, their expressions indicating nothing more than mild curiosity. The fifth head, belonging to an older woman with a chic platinum bob, watched them steadily as they made their way around the maze of desks, the slight smile across her lips widening into genuine welcome as they approached.

“McLaren,” she acknowledged once they were standing in front of her desk. “It’s good to see you again. And this must be Ms Rider.” She reached out a hand to Alex and the younger woman took it, finding, to her surprise, the distinctive calluses that extensive familiarity with firearms branded into one’s skin.

The older woman smiled a little wider at the faint look of surprise that must have been apparent on Alex’s face, the corners of her eyes crinkled in amusement. “Georgiana Corcoran, Ms Rider. I’m Mr Leggat’s Executive Assistant. And in Six that tends to mean a more varied skill set than you might imagine outside the Service.”

Alex couldn’t help the smile she gave back. “I’m sure it does. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too, Ms Rider. And with any luck we’ll be able to help you get everything squared away as soon as possible. M was quite insistent that we clear up the mess that piece of work, Blunt, caused asap, and Mr Leggat has been clarifying the details of your case since M gave him the nod yesterday.”

Still somewhat confused, Alex raised an eyebrow at McLaren in an unspoken request for clarification. “Mr Leggat is Head of Internal Legal, Ms Rider,” he explained. “M asked him to look into the details of your uncle’s will. And he’s also going to explain the procedures for the various other things that M mentioned in her discussion with you." 

She nodded in understanding, still feeling a little unsettled. But before she had had a chance to ask McLaren any further questions, an authoritative voice boomed out from the inner room.

“Georgie? Is my 2.30 here yet?” And before she could react, Alex found herself shuffled into the inner room, with a quick aside from McLaren that he would be back to pick her up later. The door shut behind her and she was suddenly face to face with one of the few people who she hoped might be able to dispel some of the confusion she had found herself surrounded by. Maybe… maybe she could finally get some answers, even if the answers were not all that she hoped for.  


She found herself rather bizarrely looking forward to it.

"Alastair Leggat," as he introduced himself, was a tall, spare man, with the rangy physique of a long distance runner and the craggy, weathered face of a man who had spent a lot of time outside in all weathers, topped with a shock of gray hair. The harsh lines of his face could have been intimidating but they were softened by a pair of shrewd faded blue eyes that briefly scanned her and in that one glance seemed to take her measure, and exactly how bewildered she was beginning to feel. Abruptly the taciturn lines of his face relaxed and he gestured to one of the two chairs in front of his paper filled desk. 

"Sit down, Ms Rider. Sit down. I'll just grab us some tea. Georgie!" he yelled through the closed door, and Mrs Corcoran's unflappable countenance appeared around the re-opened door in an instant. "You bellowed?" she enquired sweetly, but with an underlying air of longsuffering humour.

"Yes, yes. Can you grab us a cuppa? Biscuits too, if you can get them. How do you take your tea, Ms Rider?"

"Milk and one sugar please. And it's Alex, if you don't mind. No one has really called me Ms Rider for years."

Leggat paused in his instructions to his EA to regard her again, head cocked to one side in consideration. "Alex, eh? Well, very good."

He sat down behind his desk and for a moment they just regarded each other, until Mrs Corcoran bustled in with a mug of tea for each of them and a plate of biscuits. Alex reached out gratefully to take the mug she was offered and politely waited to be offered the biscuits before snaffling a custard cream. She nibbled on it distractedly and contemplated the endless depths of the tea in her mug while Mrs Corcoran organised things and Leggat muttered back to her, but it wasn't until the door was firmly closed behind Mrs C's retreating form that Leggat addressed her directly.

"I knew your Uncle Ian."

Very few things he could have said would have surprised Alex more and she broke from her philosophical contemplation of her tea mug to look up at him directly. Leggat smiled wryly at her obvious surprise.

"Not that well, mind you, but he was a double 00, and I have always undertaken all of the legal work for the double 00s in-house, so we met a few times. He was a decent man. I respected him." He nodded to the folder in front of him on his desk. "In fact, I drafted his Will, and no doubt I would have been responsible for his probate if he had died while working for Six. I daresay things would have worked out a lot smoother for you, if that had been the case," he sighed gustily. 

Alex just looked at him, a thousand questions about her uncle that she felt unable to voice stuck in her throat and some part of the older man across the desk seemed to recognise that yearning. "I would be happy to talk to you about him at some point if you would like," he offered gently. "But I don't think this is quite the right time is it?" At her silent shake of her head, he inclined his head in agreement and continued, unabated.

"Bloody Blunt. But, as they say, you can't change the past, and M is very keen that we get everything sorted out for you right away, so let's get started."

He pulled various documents out of the folder. "This, Alex, is your uncle's Last Will and Testament. Unlike what Blunt may have told you, it's actually a fairly simple document...." Alex leaned forward eagerly. Finally, some answers.  
Two hours later, she was feeling considerably more wrung out, but also full to bursting with information. As Leggat had noted, Ian Rider's Will had been pretty simple, and as his actual death had been so many years ago, all of the probate had long since been completed and the monies from his estate were sitting in various bank accounts, just waiting for Alex to claim them. Blunt had wanted to control her, and had in part used the money to do so, but he had no interest in the money per se, just in keeping it inaccessible. So Mrs Jones had, in her normal logical fashion, arranged for the funds to be placed in conservative savings accounts, and consequently it had been sitting in those accounts for the last 3 years since probate had been complete, quietly gaining interest. In fact, it had done rather well. 

Leggat explained this to her in detail, while keeping it simple enough not to drown her in minutiae, recognising with the shrewdness of a man who had been doing his job for a very long time that too much just now would simply overwhelm her. He also explained the details of the payments Her Majesty's Government would be making to her, how her accounts had been set up with her backlogged salary paid into them, and how the lump sum payment had been put into a high interest account for her. He very briefly covered the details of the pension that had been set up for her and backlogged to the date of her first mission for Blunt. Finally, he provided her with a new credit card and debit card for those day to day accounts, and access and contact details for the rest of her personal banking. As he noted, she was, of course, free to transfer any of the monies wherever she wished, but it had been felt that this way would be easiest for her and would allow her breathing space financially until she could decide what she wanted to do. 

She nodded almost mechanically at this, a little dazed by the thought of all of the money she now seemed to be in possession of, and by the sheer relief of knowing that she wouldn't have to frantically scrimp just to eat, or to heat the house. Under the relief was a slow burning rage, rage at Blunt and Mrs Jones for making her live like that for so many years, constantly worried about how she was going to afford to stay in the house and what her puppet-master was going to do next to make her life even more difficult. 

Leggat finished his recitation and paused, taking in his companion's slightly overwhelmed posture and the bruising so obvious against the pallor of her skin. She was sitting partly hunched over, no doubt to compensate for the injuries he knew that she had, but apart from that had made no mention of the discomfort she must have been suffering. He was a hard man himself, ex-military - like a large percentage of Six personnel - but despite that, there was something about the young woman sitting in front of him that touched a nerve. He hadn't been privy to the full details of her experiences while essentially indentured to Blunt, but whatever had happened to her, it was a credit to her physical toughness and pure strength of will that she had managed to survive what had increasingly become a game of attrition played by Blunt while he used her as his pawn on the board. He hadn't been exaggerating when he told Rider that he'd known her uncle, but he had somewhat understated how well he had known Ian, not wanting to upset the fragile emotional balance that she was obviously holding onto with both hands. While he wouldn't say that he and Ian had been close friends, they had certainly been close professional colleagues and they had spent more than a few nights drinking together, during which Ian had occasionally mentioned his niece, his daughter in all but blood. Even when she was a child, Ian had been fiercely proud of her and although the unconventionality of her childhood had been enough that Leggat had sometimes raised an enquiring eyebrow, it had clearly produced an individual who had the potential to be someone truly special, even within the maverick roll call of geniuses and traitors that were Six's speciality.

And although he could tell that she was currently functioning at a low ebb, he had the utmost faith that any child of Ian Rider's could pick herself up from far worse things and still come out fighting, so he had no doubt that she would do the same once she had taken some time to process all of the changes that she had suffered in the last few days and recover.

"Right. I believe that's all we need to cover today. Details of your employment contract and the contract itself will be sent out to you in the post in a few days. But in the meantime, do you have any further questions?"

Alex pondered for a minute. Leggat had been exceptionally thorough and she felt like a dam filled to capacity with new information, with the danger that any more data might just send her into overload. But there were two things….

"Sir, if I wanted to sell my uncle's....I mean my house, would the Service help with that, or should I do it through a normal civilian estate agent and solicitor?"

Leggat raised an eyebrow. "Hhmmm. Well we do have a small property department within Six, and for security purposes it would probably be best if you utilised it. Here…" He grabbed a post-it note off his desk and scribbled a name and a telephone number on it in his signature messy scrawl before he thrust it across the desk at her. She took it gingerly and slipped it into the folder of documents he had passed over to her during their meeting.

"James Croyden. Good man. He'll make sure that you are set up properly if you want to sell that old monster of a house. You should make a pretty profit on it too - your Uncle had a good eye for property and I'm pretty sure that prices in your area have soared in the last few years. He should be able to set you up with a competent surveyor as well, if you want to get it assessed for value."

"Thank you." Alex shifted in her seat and winced. The bruises on her torso were increasingly making themselves known. "I was also wondering if you knew when my employment contract kicks in? For instance, when I am meant to report?"

He hummed and hawed over that. "Good question. Let me check the system." There was a moment's pause as he rapidly accessed her file online and scrolled down it. "Right I can see here that you are to be inducted in with the next batch of graduates we have coming in. So that'll be….hhmmm….late September…ah yes! Monday the 26th. You'll get official orders nearer the time, but I see they have you on medical leave until then....still full pay," he hastened to reassure her, "but I can see here M has instructed you are to be kept on leave until then unless your presence is absolutely required." 

He met her eyes, and then briefly scanned the rest of her body analytically, taking in her increasingly hunched figure. "I think our fearless leader believes that you would benefit from a little R&R. And it will be a lot easier for us to integrate you if you cycle in with the next batch of graduate recruits, rather than by yourself. It means that you will be able to undertake our initial recruit training with the rest of an intake, rather than having to undertake it by yourself. And you can get to know your fellow recruits as well, which is always useful down the line."

Alex sat back in her chair, even more tension draining out of her. September 26. As it was only the 5th of July, that meant she had nearly 3 months to just relax, to finally get some of the sleep she felt like she had been acting on a deficit of for years. Just the idea of that - of actually waking up not feeling exhausted - almost made tears prick at the back of her eyes.

"That…" She cleared her throat, aware that she sounded somewhat raspy. "That sounds wonderful. Are there any restrictions or instructions that I should know about for my off period?"

Leggat was still watching her with that steady, far too perceptive gaze, but at her quiet query he nodded and turned his attention back to her file. "Well, Medical will want to see you on a fortnightly basis for monitoring and possible physical therapy assignments, but apart from that I can't see any restrictions, apart from the normal travel ones."

"Normal travel ones?"

"Hhhmm, yes. Like the rest of us, there are a few countries that are now unfortunately off limits to you for non-work purposes while you remain an agent with Six." He pressed a few keys and with a quiet rumble the printer behind her sprouted off a sheet of paper which he passed over to her. "Mostly just the normal suspects, Iran, Pakistan, Afghanistan. Essentially treat anywhere with "Stan" in the title with a healthy degree of scepticism. Oh, and China and Russia. Still not a good idea to sojourn in either country without backup if you are one of us. So if you have an overwhelming urge to holiday in a dacha by the Black Sea, it might have to wait."

Alex smiled a little at that and briefly perused the list. The vast majority of the countries noted were ones she would have expected, but there were a few (like Cuba) that were surprisingly not on the list. Obviously Six wasn't too bothered by Castro if they were still granting their staff permission to holiday there.

"Oh, and the other thing you have to do before you leave the country on holiday is file an 'Out-of-country' report with the HR department." At Alex's enquiring eyebrow, he explained further. "Just a quick form with when and where you are leaving from and when you expect to get back, flight details etc. Oh, and where you are likely to stay, so that Six can get in touch with you if need be. And your contact details, of course."

"Of course."

He gave her a quick, rueful smile. "M has given explicit orders that you are to be left in peace, but absolute necessity waits for no woman and we do need to be able to find you in the event of everything going tits up."

"I'm not sure if my phone…."

He waved a hand in dismissal. "Oh, McLaren will take you down to Q Division - they'll set you up with an encrypted satellite phone before you leave. We all have them. Quite useful, really – you never have to worry about being out of mobile phone coverage with one of those in your pocket."

She nodded in acknowledgement and Leggat fixed her again with that piercing stare of his that she had become remarkably familiar with in the short space of time of their interview. 

"Anything else?" Alex shook her head wordlessly, suddenly so exhausted that even sitting upright felt like an effort. It was like all of the stress she had been under for the last few months - no, the last four years - had drained from her all at once, taking with it the meat in her muscles and the marrow in her bones. Even the idea of moving felt faintly horrific. Leggat raised an eyebrow at her non-verbal response and the intensity of his glare seemed to soften, almost imperceptibly, as he tilted his head to look her over, almost abstractly avuncular in his assessment.

"Ms Rider - if you don't mind an old man's meddling, I am going to strongly suggest that we delay your next scheduled appointment with Q Division until tomorrow and that you accompany Mr McLaren when he returns to Medical and stay there overnight. I know that your original schedule has you released on your own recognisance once McLaren has dealt with setting you up with a sat phone, but I understand that you have to come back first thing tomorrow morning anyway for your detailed medical assessment and physio schedule. So I would suggest that instead you spend what will undoubtedly the first of many nights in the bosom of Six - get yourself some dinner from the Mess - McLaren will take you, and then crash out." 

"But Sir - won't I be in the way?"

"Bollocks. We built this edifice with redundancy in mind - and with the understanding that sometimes gross necessity requires us worker drones to burn the midnight oil. Consequently, we have an entire mini wing of emergency accommodation. Medical will set you up - bed, en-suite bathroom, TV with undoubtedly slightly illegally souped up channel package - courtesy of Q's department, that one - we've given up banning it, as the geeks get miserable without their regular doses of Battlestar Galactica - and then tomorrow you can get your Medical over first thing without any hassle, check in with Q Division and leave at least relatively refreshed."

She had to admit that to her exhausted self it sounded so much better than trying to organise her finances and then struggling back through London's relentless rush hour to the house, only to have to drag herself back in to Six early the next morning. And to be honest, it wasn't as if she was particularly keen to go back to the house anyway. These days it was too big, and far too empty, echoing with her ghosts, rather than any familial warmth, and she was only too aware of the fact that too many people knew that she lived there for her to feel particularly secure within its boundaries. At least at Six, she could be pretty much guaranteed that no one was going to try to kill her in her sleep. That wasn't a certainty at the house – and in state she was in, she wasn't sure that she would be able to fight them off.

After a moment's further consideration, she nodded wearily in response to Leggat's suggestion, scrubbing her hands over her face in a vain attempt to wake herself up. "Thank you, Sir. That would probably be better."

Leggat nodded in satisfaction. "Good. Let's get McLaren down here and get you sorted. GEORGIE!" he yelled, causing Alex to wince slightly at the sudden noise. A moment later the unruffled features of Mrs Corcoran appeared at the door, one eyebrow raised.  
"Georgie - get McLaren to come down when he has a minute – slight change of plan with Ms Rider's scheduling, but nothing to cause any drama - she'll be staying at Six tonight and I have recommended that she leave her Q Division appointment until tomorrow..." Leggat muttered on, as Alex sat back and let it all wash over her. For once, she could relax and didn't have to worry, and she intended to savour every minute of the blessed release of responsibility. For God knew that burden would certainly be waiting for her to take it up again tomorrow.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

By midday the next day, Alex found herself back at her house, loaded down with a bottle of vitamins and stern exhortations from Medical to rest as well, as well as an appointment to report back to them in two weeks so that they could check on her injuries. She was also in possession of a satellite phone foisted on her by the slightly distracted, but absentmindedly welcoming, Head of Q division and the packet of documents concerning her employment status and Ian's Will provided to her by Leggat's oh-so-efficient office.

She hadn't been back at the house for weeks - since before the beginning of her last assignment - and the whole place felt dusty and disordered, the air in the closed-off rooms stuffy and dead. A palatable air of neglect hung over the entire structure, the back garden where she had played as a child overgrown and weed strewn, all of the bedrooms, apart from her own, empty and abandoned. 

Her uncle's house (hers now, she supposed), had been the closest she had ever had to a permanent sanctuary growing up, but now it suddenly felt weirdly alien and uncomfortable, like a pair of old shoes re-discovered in a cupboard and tried on years later that somehow didn't fit her feet. The feeling was even stronger when she tried to set herself up in the living room to examine the paperwork she had been supplied with, too many memories of haphazardly completing homework under her Uncle's watchful and affectionate gaze echoing in the room for her to feel comfortable. Hastily she decamped to the basement kitchen and the old oak table there, the surface marked with years of miss-chopped knife marks from Jack's horrendous vegetable preparation attempts and her own baby attempts to 'decorate' the surface with an assortment of coloured permanent markers. She still didn't feel completely settled, but at least the ghosts there were easier to deal with.

She spread the papers over the pockmarked surface and sat down to read. The details of her employment and the employment contract itself were just as Leggat had described, and once she had read both over in detail (twice), she felt comfortable enough to sign both copies of the contract she had been supplied with and send one back. Sealing one signed copy up in the provided envelope, she made a mental note to post it as soon as possible, and put the other signed copy in the pile of 'dealt with' paperwork, adding 'get an offsite safety deposit box' to her already growing list of things she had to action.

The details of her financial arrangements and settlement were the same as she had previously discussed with Leggat and she just briefly scanned them before she laid them to one side and picked up the final packet in the pile, the envelope that contained Ian's Last Will and Testament. Alex hesitated even as she opened the seal at the top of the manila envelope. Maybe she should leave this one until tomorrow... But then she shook herself out of the prospective funk that she was in danger of falling into and pushed on. After all, as her uncle had frequently reminded her, difficult things didn't become easier just because you put them off.

To her surprise, when she tipped out the envelope onto the table-top, not one, but two, items fell out. The first was clearly a copy of the Will and Testament that she had already reviewed with Leggat, but the other was much smaller, and square, and when she looked closer, revealed itself to be a small envelope, the size and shape such as would be used to send a thank-you card, or a formal invitation.

Alex's hand hovered over it for a second before she turned it over, suddenly sure of what she would find but not sure as to how she felt about it. She finally sighed, irritated with her own indecisiveness, and flipped it over so that the front, addressed to _Ms Alexandra Katherine Rider_ in an oh-so-familiar copperplate (Ian had had such beautiful handwriting - she had forgotten that), faced upwards. She paused for a second more, and then with a sigh she picked the envelope up and carefully peeled open the seal.

Inside was a single sheet of thick note paper, folded in half. Before she could lose her nerve again, she slipped it out and unfolded it, the stark lines of Ian's handwriting black against the cream of the high quality note stock.

_Alexandra,_

_If you are reading this, I am gone to who knows where…and unfortunately have been forced to break my promise to you, to my eternal regret. I can only hope that all the stories that we have ever been told are true and that I have been reunited with your parents, and my parents and all of those I have ever loved, but as it's a one way mission, I won't be able to report back to you on this one. However, if there is any form of afterlife for someone like me, I promise you that I'll be making it my raison d'être to keep an eye on you, from wherever I end up._

_There are far too many things that I could say to you, but those would fill up a book, and I only have this little piece of paper, so just remember that I love you and I have always been so very proud of you, and that of all the decisions I have made in my life, my decision to look after you after your parents died, was by far my best._

_Always and forever, sweetheart._

_Ian_

_P.S: I like to think that if you wanted to remember me, you would go to that place we used to watch the storms and the snow together, and think of me._

_IR._

Alex swallowed the lump in her throat and rubbed her eyes roughly with one hand, the other tightening around the piece of paper. However, despite how affected she was by what he had written, she still found herself considering the piece of paper in her hand with a certain degree of scepticism. The note was so very _Ian,_ \- and yet... Ian had never called her Alexandra, not once, and the fact he had in such an otherwise emotional note... that was enough to arouse her suspicions that there might be some other message that she was missing, hidden in the letter for her eyes alone.

She read the letter again, focusing on the postscript, which seemed somewhat out of place with the rest of Ian's words. 

_....The place we use to watch the storms and the snow together...._

Now where could he be referring to? She cast her mind back, and a few minutes later she was pulling herself through the hatch into the attic above the top hallway. Inside it was dim and dusty but at the far end of the long, narrow, triangular space there was an old porthole window set into the eaves, its panes only slightly visible amongst the chaos of old boxes and trunks. 

She carefully picked her way down through the debris to the window and smiled when she saw that the old mattress that Ian had helped her drag up here almost a decade ago was still where she had left it. She hadn't been up here for years, not since she was 14 and everything went to hell. However, when she was younger this had been her sanctuary, a place she had only shared with her uncle, and even then only when it had stormed or snowed heavily over London and the two of them had sat up into the night watching the heavens open and nursing their respective mugs of coffee and hot chocolate. She would fall asleep against his side and he would carry her down to tuck her into bed. It had been their secret - the various housekeepers that Ian had employed had never even known that this place existed. In fact, Ian had always told her to keep it that way, and that if she was ever scared that someone strange was in the house and he wasn't there, to come here, and hide, and not come out until he came and found her. 

With the benefit of hindsight, it made perfect sense that Ian would have wanted her to have a bolthole. With his job and the enemies he had made, he must have been quietly, constantly, worried that someone would find out where he lived and the location of his one true vulnerability - her. God knows Alex herself had already suffered the consequences of her enemies and her supposed allies knowing where she lived (the murder of Jack Starbright being the most crippling incident, but not the only one). In fact, in retrospect, it was remarkable that Ian had been able to protect her to the extent he had, but she could only be grateful that he had been able to, allowing her to have a fairly normal (for a given definition of normal) childhood right up until the day he died.  
But she was wool-gathering again. Ian had wanted her to come here for a reason and so there had to be something she was meant to find.... 

She dropped to her knees on the mattress, ignoring the puffs of dust that rose as she did so, and began to search systematically through the piles of old children's books and ancient toys that festooned her old sanctuary. It took her ten minutes of concentrated hunting to find what her uncle had left her, and that was only because she remembered it had been Ian who had shown her the loose floorboard that could be lifted up to reveal a small hiding space between the eaves and the plasterboard ceiling of the next floor down. 

There was another envelope there, just visible under the protective cover of the plastic folder Ian had wrapped it in and she lifted it out eagerly, sitting down on the ancient mattress to read it, headless of the dirt that consequently spread across her jeans.  
On the face of the envelope it simply said _“Alix – drink the blue potion”_ in Ian's elegant handwriting. Inside there was a small brass key and a sheet of paper seemingly covered in gibberish – no writing, just a block of numbers without any breaks. 

Alex frowned, considering. She and Ian had played these games a lot when she was a child, encoding everything from birthday and Christmas scavenger hunts to catch up notes, but it had been a while and she wasn't sure which of the various codes that he had taught her (from simple to complex) he was referring to. She tapped the envelope against her knee as she cast her mind back, and then her lips quirked as she realised that her uncle, contrary to the last, had left her a secret message with a giant misspelt clue on the front. 

A few minutes later she was downstairs in her Uncle's study. Thankfully her old battered copy of Lewis Carroll's classic was on the shelf where she remembered leaving it. Broken down, the code was a fairly simple one, just a variation on a book cipher but one that relied on her memory of Ian teaching her that specific version of the cipher, which would make it suitably obtuse to anyone else who might have managed to get their hands on the letter. 

Decoded, the message was simple: _Alex - if you are reading this, one way or another, I will be gone. But that doesn't mean that I'm willing to do any less than my very best to look out for you in the future, just because I can't be physically with you. So, go to the following address. I've left you a present. I hope it will in some ways make up for all the Christmases and birthdays I'm going to miss._

_Always and forever._

_Ian._

It was so very _Ian_ – layers of obfuscation, wrapped in the cryptic, that she smiled, despite herself. It was amazing that she hadn't guessed he was a spy years before he died – god, she must have been blissfully oblivious. 

When she looked up the address he had provided, it turned out to be for a company in St John's Wood, North London. A quick bit of googling, and the firm revealed itself to be a safety deposit-box depository. Intrigued, Alex hesitated, considering her options. It was 17.00 hours now and they closed at 19.00... by the time she got there, she might be cutting it quite close. No, she decided, it was too late today. She'd investigate it tomorrow, first thing, when she had had a decent night's sleep, and was on better form. 

She carefully secreted the key in one of her favourite hiding places and went to grab her bag. One of the major disadvantages of living alone with no housekeeper was that, apart from a few cans of Tesco value soup (Blunt's tight financial lease showing again), she had no edible food in the house. And at least with her enforced break, she was guaranteed to be in the house for long enough without constant interruptions that if she bought food to stock up, she might actually get the opportunity to eat it before it went off. 

++++++++ 

The next morning she woke up automatically at 7.00am, and hauled herself out of bed, ignoring the protestations of her injuries, which had reached the familiar stage of healing where they almost hurt more than they had when they had been first inflicted. Pulling on her most ancient leggings and a t-shirt, she hit the pavement for an easy ten miles. 

Blunt had used every lever at his disposal to control her, and Alex had realised early on in their acquaintance that she had little or no hope of avoiding his all-seeing eye while she was a minor. Especially considering she was an orphaned minor, and essentially a ward of the State. But she had also realised that it would be a hell of a lot harder for him to continue to 'own her' once she reached 18, and she had started fighting ever since the moment of that realisation, to maintain the things that would allow her to escape his control once she was sure he wouldn't legally be able to drag her back. So she had begged and pleaded her school to allow her to continue to submit her work, even if her classroom attendance was erratic, and managed, by hook or by crook, to sit her exams, so that she would have a hope in hell of getting into university and a chance to forge her own existence, independent of Blunt or anyone else. It had meant that she had no social life, no friends, nothing outside schoolwork, missions and recovery time, but it had been worth it. 

The only thing she hadn't had to sacrifice on the altar of expediency was her running and the rest of her exercise regime. Even Blunt approved of her fanatical devotion to that, as her maintenance of a high base level of fitness made her a far more successful agent in the field, and increased the odds of her continuing survival so that she could be utilised by him again in the future. But as her eighteenth birthday had inched closer and closer, something had changed. The look in his eyes when he briefed her, the nature and the tenor of the missions she had been sent upon, and the sheer tempo of her mission schedule, all combined to add up to an inescapable conclusion. Blunt no longer cared if she survived each mission. In fact, he might prefer it if she didn't. 

At the time she hadn't been absolutely sure of his motivations, but now, knowing the illegal nature of his unit as she did, it was clear to her that he had intended to take her out of the picture permanently, either by increasing her mission tempo to suicidal levels and sending her out again and again until the inevitable happened, or possibly by arranging for her to 'disappear' himself. After all, she knew far, far too much to be allowed to just fade into obscurity. She knew where the bodies were buried – literally, in a number of cases. If Blunt couldn't control her, she wasn't an asset - she was a loose end. And loose ends were something that Blunt liked to tidy up - permanently. 

So for those last few months, as the clock ticked ever closer to her eighteenth birthday, it had become a war of attrition between them, the odds ever changing between his desire to wring every iota of use out of her that he could and Alex's determination to survive to get free. This meant that staying physically on top of her game became even more imperative. 

To be honest, Blunt might actually have won, if it hadn't been for Six's intervention. That last mission had been a cluster fuck from the beginning, and she genuinely wasn't sure how she could have made it out if Six hadn't become involved. But they had....and now she had a chance to actively choose what she was going to do with her life - and to forge her own path, on her own terms. And yeah - perhaps she had chosen a career that was almost identical to the one she had been forced into at age 14, but that was the key word - _choice_. She'd chosen it. And she was damn well going to bloody well excel at it. Her eyes narrowed in contemplation, as her feet hit the pavement in unconscious rhythm. So that meant keeping up the exercise, and clawing every single scrap of training she possibly could out of Six. And maybe even striking out on her own as well. It never hurt to learn as much as you could about as wide a range of subjects as possible. You never knew when something you learned might come in handy. Ian had taught her that and it was a good mantra to live by. 

It was a beautiful summer morning in London, and Alex made sure to appreciate it, even as she made her way from St John's Wood tube station to the North London vault of Metropolitan Safe Deposits. She had loved Ian deeply, but the older she became, the more she realised the extent of the secrets that he had kept from her, and while she didn't blame him, she was deeply curious as what could have been important enough to him to require three levels of security before she was even given its address. Whatever it was, she hoped that she wouldn't have too many problems accessing it, but just in case, she had brought along a copy of Ian's Will and the Grant of Probate letter to prove her position as her uncle's heir. 

Surprisingly, when she talked to the vault official it turned out that she didn't need any of it, as Ian had arranged for her to be jointly registered with him as the renter of the box in question. The only minor delay was in getting a new issue of the relevant access card as Ian hadn't provided her with a copy. But a quick wave of her passport and a payment of ten pounds solved _that_ problem (would that all of her problems were so easily solved) and she was soon being shown into a small room hidden inside the vault level three stories underground, which was bare, apart from an office table and two chairs. 

The bruises were still clear on her face from her last mission and she was conscious of the curious glances of the vault supervisor when he arrived carrying her assigned box (which was about the size of an A3 pad of paper, although considerably thicker). But she ignored him, and well-trained, he limited himself to speculative glances as he placed the box down on the table and left, only pausing to mention that she should ring the bell when she had finished and wanted to return the box to the vault. 

The atmosphere in the small room felt strangely heavy with anticipation as she entered the access code onto the keypad on the front of the box, and the soft rasp, as she inserted the small brass key Ian had left her with into the box lock and turned it, lifting the lid, seemed to echo disproportionately in the silence. 

The box was packed almost to the brim with a variety of items - a cloth bound ledger, a small, black, hardened rectangular case closed with thumb hasps and a few velvet covered boxes of various sizes. More surprisingly, there was a stack of bank notes of various denominations and currencies, and underneath the neat piles of boxes, Alex could see a wash of various bank cards, serious looking letters, more envelopes with hand written addresses and small, flat, card-backed shapes that she thought might possibly be passports. What on _earth_ had Ian left her? 

Lying on top of everything else was another legal-sized envelope with her name marked on the front in Ian's inimitable scrawl. For want of a clear decision as to what to investigate first, she picked it up and tipped its contents onto the surface of the table. What spilled out seemed to be another copy of Ian's Will, some documents that looked like the Deeds to the house, and possibly also to the Bothy up at Achnacarry, a copy of what looked like a life assurance policy in Ian's name, a few photographs that she put aside to look at later and finally a loose sheet of writing paper headed with _“Dear Alex -"_ in Ian's messy longhand. With a strange sense of trepidation she picked up the last item, eyes automatically scanning the page. 

_20th December 2004_

_Dear Alex,_

_In some ways, I hope that you never see this letter, or at least that you never do until you are a mother yourself, and I have died of old age, in my chair by the fire. But with the life I lead, the odds are unfortunately against that happy outcome, so, if you are reading this letter at any time in the next decade, well - all I can say is, I'm sorry that I had to leave you so soon, and I never would have done so willingly._

_As I write this letter, you are 13 going on 14, going on 30, and I am watching you roll your eyes at the 'pathetic-ness' (your word, not mine) of your homework while you work at it at the table in the living room. Your hair is falling over your nose and your eyes are narrowed as you glare the maths into an easy submission, and all I can see when I look at you is what a perfect blend of your parents you are. You may not believe it now when I tell you, but I know already that you're going to be a knock out when you get just a little older – you look just like your mother, but you have my brother's eyes - and that scruffy blond hair is all Rider. As is your tendency to never see a cliff you don't want to throw yourself off, or down, which just goes to show how karma hits across generations, as I distinctly remember Johnnie and I doing the same thing when we were growing up, and terrifying my parents as you have frequently, terrified me. But I still wouldn't have had you be any other way._

_You may have realised by now that we are not a particularly normal family. Public service of the ‘derring do’ type seems to have always run in our veins, and your father and I were no exception. Both of us joined the Army straight out of university and by various avenues we ended up with the clandestine Services - real life "Men In Black" - a situation that meant our paths in life became somewhat complicated. But whatever you may learn, or have already learned about us both, I can promise you that both your father and I always did the best we could for this country, and for the people whom we loved, and you and your mother were at the centre of that. I can only hope that I get to explain everything to you in person once you turn eighteen, but if not, try to judge us gently, Sweetheart, for we both tried our very best, even when the circumstances were not ideal._

_When your parents were killed, I seriously considered just taking you and going to ground somewhere on a tropical island in the middle of nowhere. But my employer at the time, (who I am sure you have worked out by now was MI6) was very keen to have me stay, and allowed me to work on more mainstream issues that meant I could combine the Service with being there to bring you up as much as possible. It was the best possible option for me, and, quite selfishly, I couldn't bring myself to walk away from Six, even if it might have been better for you if I had._

_But I have always been aware that my and your father's choices left you more vulnerable than might have otherwise been the case. So this box is the best solution I could come up with, just in case you might ever need to use it. If you ever are in serious trouble, or have to go on the run for any reason whatsoever, everything you will ever need to start a whole new life, or in fact, a number of new lives, is contained in this box. I started to put together these identities for you when I adopted you when you were three months old, and I have maintained them ever since and will continue to do so for as long as I am able._

_So if you need to disappear, My Heart, this box will give you the ability to do so._

_I have also included details of the various stashes and boltholes your father and I set up during our rather colourful careers, and contact details for a number of my acquaintances who may be able to provide you with specialised assistance if you ever need it - they may come in useful after all, and one of the abiding truths of the world is that you can never have too much money, too many people owing you favours or too many places to escape to._

_You will find some other things in here that I have included for sentimental value - family photographs, your mother and grandmother's jewellery, and some of our letters to each other - but I'll let you discover those for yourself._

_Finally, if I didn't say it enough – I'm saying it now. You were the best thing, hands down, that ever happened to your mother, your father or myself, and I am so very proud of you, and of the woman you will undoubtedly become. Choose your own path, Sweetheart, fly high and be free. Don't forget us, but the past is a too often visited country, and you should seek your own future, unburdened by any ghosts, other than the knowledge that we all loved you dearly._

_I wish you all the love and joy in the world, for after all, you were all the joy in mine._

_With all my love,_

_Always and forever._

_Ian._

She read the letter through twice more, and she didn't even realise that she was crying until the teardrops landed on the thin note paper, turning it translucent where they fell. Hastily she laid the sheet aside, and in a fit of emotion she couldn't explain she tore through the box frantically, gulping down tears as she did so, not sure what she was searching for, but somehow sure she would know it when she found it. The jewellery boxes were set aside for later examination, the stack of cash turned out to be Euros, US Dollars and Sterling, approximately £10,000 in each and inside the small hardened case there was a Walther PPK with a loaded magazine, and extra ammunition. She couldn't concentrate enough to properly read the ledger, but a brief scan showed details of bank accounts in Switzerland, Hong Kong, Panama and the Cayman Islands and lists of contacts and names under headings such as 'Extraction/Border Crossings', 'Weaponry' and 'Papers'. 

She dropped the ledger back onto the table - enough time to look at that later - and then she was clawing through the debris at the bottom of the box – current UK passports in three different names, just waiting for her photographs, birth certificates in Spanish, English and Italian, school records, driving licences for people who didn't even exist in four different languages, receipts for storage lockers in the US, in Hong Kong, in France and Spain, London and Scotland..... It was a web, she realised, a convoluted web of caring spun around her, almost since she was born, by her uncle - a web solely constructed to protect her, a web that he must have spent hundreds of thousands of pounds on over the years, just on the off chance that she might need it, a life's work of caring, and dedication, and tangible love, demonstrated by bank letters and birth certificates, and the cold metal solidity of a gun. 

She could tell by the burning at the back of her eyes that she was crying again, but she didn't care - she just knew that there was something - that there was something she was still looking for. Letters were thrown aside to be looked at later, bank cards piled up randomly while she searched. It had to be here, it had to be. And then she turned over a random piece of paper, and there it was. 

There had been a photograph that used to hang in her house for as long as she could remember, of her parents and her uncle and her as a tiny baby, taken just days before her Mum and Dad had left, to catch the fatal flight that killed them. Then, a few years ago, the picture had mysteriously disappeared from its customary place on the wall, and she hadn't had the chance to ask Ian where it had gone before he had died. So afterwards, she had had to assume it was lost forever. But, here it was. 

Her finger reached out shakily and traced the so-familiar figures, her mum caught forever in a laughing look at her dad, her dad's otherwise stern face broken by a wry smile, and Ian in the middle of them, grinning, holding her, a tiny, white swaddled bundle, in his arms. The sun had been shining, and they all looked so happy, and with her almost adult eyes, so young. And they had all loved her, and had died loving her still.

She wasn't aware that she was weeping helplessly until her breath caught in her throat. She felt like she was choking, sobbing, the grief rising up like a tidal wave, all the pain she had suffered in the last four years pulling her under like a tsunami, every time she been hurt, or abused, crawled bleeding into a corner, or forced herself to carry on with the diamond hard awareness that if she didn't, no one else would be coming to rescue her because no one else cared if she lived or died. The pain ripped her open, eviscerating the scar tissue that she had built up in a wave of cleansing fire. She had been loved. She had been _worthy_ of being loved, and even though it made no practical difference in some ways, in others it made all the difference in the world. 

She cradled her head on her arms and cried like she hadn't cried in years, since the day that Blunt and his cronies had arrived at her door to tell her of Ian's death, but this time they were cleansing tears, rather than tears of abandonment and grief. She didn't know how long she cried for, but when she finally hiccupped her way to a semblance of control and wiped her burning eyes dry on her sleeve, she felt calm. Light, and at peace and strangely empty, as though she'd had an infection that she hadn't been aware of for years that had now been lanced, leaving her clean and hollowed out, but disease free. Her throat was still burning from her tears and her eyes were sore, but that and her other injuries were as nothing. 

Right then and there, she decided she was done with the past. From now on, she would do exactly what Ian and her parents would have wanted - she would forge her own destiny, unafraid. And God should spare anyone who got in her way because she certainly wouldn't. She was _done_ with being controlled and done with being anyone's puppet, or anyone's victim. 

She was a Rider, and it seemed that that name had meant something in the annals of the world she was about to step into. She intended to make sure that it still would. Her eyes narrowed as she contemplated the chaos that was the contents of the box spilled out onto the table. Ian had given her all the tools she might ever possibly need to be the best damned agent Six had ever seen, and at that moment she resolved that she was going to be exactly that. Her hand clenched harder on the edge of the photograph in her hand and she looked down with burning eyes at those smiling faces, taken away from her so young. She was a Rider - she was _Alex_ Rider - and she was going to make them _proud_. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Apologies for the massive delay, but in exchange, please accept not one, but two chapters to make up for it...and I would be terribly grateful if you would review so that I know some one is still reading this!_

_M16 Headquarters (85 Albert Embankment) – September 2008_

It was a warm September day when Alex first stepped inside 85 Albert Embankment in any form of official Six capacity, tipping her head back to gaze up at the stepped monstrosity of its architecture as she tried to push down the bubble of nervous excitement that was threatening to churn up her stomach. Her rather loose fitting black trouser suit swished weirdly around her ankles after an entire summer of living in running shorts, leggings and baggy boyfriend jeans. The matching suit jacket felt strange, definitely too big at the shoulder and distinctly loose at the waist, but if there was one thing she had discovered she was terrible at, it was choosing clothes, and she had finally given in and simply bought the first black trouser suit that vaguely fitted at that bastion of middle class City work wear, Marks & Spencers. She had a sneaking inclination that it probably didn't fit very well at all, but to be honest she had had far more important things to worry about over the last few months.

It had been a hectic summer but in retrospect, it had also been the best one she had experienced since Ian had died. The emotional catharsis prompted by her discovery of the safety deposit box at the Depository had left her feeling hollowed out and physically wrecked, but in some ways it had also cauterised the steady trickle of long running grief and stress she had been living with for the last four years. And without the ever present threat of Blunt hanging over her head she could finally take the opportunity to just breathe, gain some perspective, and to indulge in some long term planning. 

It was very clear to her that she was about to start an entirely new chapter of her life, and with an almost ruthless sense of prioritisation she had set about working out what she would need and what she could discard in the pursuit of her new goals.

That first day, she hadn't left the Depository until it closed, but by that time she had collected herself enough to undertake a systematic inventory of the contents of the box, her admiration for her Uncle and the bubble of warmth in her heart from his actions only growing as she methodically worked her way through the carefully organised chaos that he had left for her. The vast majority of the box's contents she left undisturbed, but she took a few of the family photographs to get copied, with the aim of returning the originals to the far more certain safety of the vault once she had duplicates to hang where ever she ended up. And she also copied down a few of the addresses from the treasure chest of information that Ian had left her in the ledger, an embryonic plan already starting to coalesce in her mind.

It had been late when she arrived back at the house in Chelsea, and she was exhausted enough by the emotional turmoil of the day that all she wanted to do was to grab a quick snack and roll into bed. But the next day, with the sun pouring through the windows of the house, she found herself wandering through the property with a realisation that grew more and more concrete with every ambling step.

She simply didn't want to live there any more. It wasn't really home – it hadn't been, if she was honest, since Jack had been killed. She had been hanging onto the building, bound to it by a toxic combination of Blunt's economic machinations, her intrinsic powerlessness as a minor under his control and the desperate urge of a cornered animal to have a den somewhere, anywhere, to call its own.

But now all of those things were gone. She was an adult, Blunt no longer controlled any aspect of her destiny and she had sufficient funds, even without the profit she would gain from selling the house, to buy any place she wanted to live in (within reason, this was London, after all and she didn't exactly have a cool £10+ million to drop on a house, like some oligarchs she had heard of). And, she realised, as she wandered, there were too many memories here. And while many of them were good, the vast majority of them over the last few years were not, and they had soaked into the walls around her, until even just being in the house brought them back in crippling technicolour - her grief after Ian's death, the childish betrayal she had felt at being abandoned by the one person she had loved most, then her bewildered incomprehension at Blunt's detached brutality in thrusting her into the vicious adult world of espionage that she was hopelessly unprepared to deal with. And then there were the times when she was trapped inside recovering from injury after injury, coping with Jack's increasingly ineffectual attempts to comfort and protect her that grew more and more sporadic the further Alex was pulled into Blunt's world and the more the rift between her and the closest thing she had ever had to a mother grew, despite both of their best intentions. Then Jack's death and years of loneliness, as she was left haunting the building like a ghost, rattling around on her own in a home built for a family. 

No, it was enough. All that pain she had suffered – it felt like it had seeped into the very fabric of her childhood home, irredeemably polluting it and wiping out all of the good memories that had gone before. She wanted out. And she wanted to live somewhere where she didn't automatically feel a slight dip in her mood every time she walked through the door.  
Plus, far too many people knew she lived at this address. Which meant that for her, continuing to reside at the house was a genuine security risk. And her awareness of that potential for threat meant that she couldn't relax even in her own bedroom any more, as her honed sense of paranoia wouldn't allow her to really rest when she sub-consciously knew that she was so exposed.

So. It was time to let it go. 

With that determination, she used her new Sat phone for the first time to call James Croyden, the contact that Legatt had provided with her with. With what she was beginning to understand was customary Six efficiency, he arranged for one of his minions to come over to the house the next day to undertake a preliminary valuation, and to discuss what selling it would entail. And once she signed the relevant paperwork they would be good to go.

The minute she put down the phone she was conscious of an enormous sense of relief, as though subconsciously the very act of putting the house up for sale had somehow broken a tether that had weighed her down for years. But now – now she was _free_. Buoyed up by a fizzy sense of optimism at the success of her first stab at being truly proactive, she determined that the most sensible option would be to keep the momentum going on her truly massive to-do list. To that end the next day she found herself at 6am at the door to an unprepossessing space underneath the railway arches close to Hackney Central, one of the few areas of Hackney that had yet to succumb to the relentless gentrification of the borough that was slowly spreading out from Dalston and Victoria Park like an inescapable tide. She glanced up at the name emblazoned above the doorway and her mouth quirked in amusement. She hoped Dante wasn't right about abandoning all hope for all who entered there.

Inside the air was cool and still, redolent of the scent of sweaty masculinity, leather and Deep Heat, the smell giving away the purpose of the venue even more overtly than the row of well brutalised punching bags or the piles of mats. It was a bigger property than you might expect from its exterior, big enough to contain both the enclosed structure of an MMA cage and a more traditional boxing ring and still have a decent amount of floor space still visible. In the far corner light bounced off the outlines of various weight and pulley machines, the sleekness of their high tech contours in stark contrast to the conspicuously traditional accoutrements of a martial artist or a boxer's trade that littered the rest of the site. 

Apart from her presence the gym seemed to be empty, but the lights hanging from the arches were switched on and there was the soft sound of a radio playing Heart FM spilling out from a door to the small office which was tucked into one corner of the structure. Soundlessly, she pulled the door shut behind her and padded across the gym floor, taking note of the well maintained functionality of the equipment, the photographs carefully framed on the walls of various fit men (and the very occasional woman) as they grinned exhaustedly while holding up trophies or elaborate belts. There were no bells and whistles here, no fancy reception desk or extra adornments, but the machines and bags were clean and functional and the floor was immaculate, the only marks the worn in scuffs of years of hard use. This was clearly not a place for poseurs or time wasters but for those serious about learning their craft and Alex felt immediately at home, the whole set up very familiar to her from the various gyms her uncle had dragged her to over the years. She traced a caressing hand over the ropes around the ring as she passed by; in fact some of her earliest memories were of gyms like this. When she was a very small girl Ian used to sit her down by the side of the ring with some toys or a book while he sparred or trained, and then as she grew older it was in gyms and martial arts dojos like this that he had started to train her, or had arranged for her to train with trusted associates when he wasn't able to oversee her training himself. 

But it had been years since she'd attended a place like this regularly. The last time had been the six months after Blunt's forcible recruitment when she still had struggled to maintain her attendance at her old karate dojo. She had finally had to admit defeat when the increasing demands of her new role clashed with the rest of her life and she had been forced to pare her non 'Six' schedule down to the bare bones in order to ensure that she kept up with her two main priorities, i.e. her school work (as she quickly realised it was her passport to eventual freedom), and the basic level of fitness that she could maintain whenever she could grab a free moment. The Dojo, with its structured routines and set timetables, was simply something she could no longer afford to accommodate into her life. But she had missed it, missed the routine and the pleasure of physical learning, the discipline and focus required to absorb new skills and those wonderful movements of revelation when her body finally shifted from rote repetition of a new kata to unconscious reaction. In fact she had considered returning to her old Sensei now that she was free of Blunt's control. But after consideration she had realised it was simply impossible for her to go back. She was too well known there, too exposed, plus four years of fighting literally to stay alive in the field had transformed the elegance of her classically trained karate form into a savage no-holds barred fight for survival. Before, she'd been a martial artist. But now, she was a killer. And her old Sensei would be horrified to see the results of her metamorphosis. Plus, after some reflection, it was clear to her that what she needed now was a tactical advantage in the field, rather than training in another elegant, but not exactly street practical, martial art.

She was aware that Six would probably have a variety of hand to hand instruction available as part of their training, but she couldn't guarantee that it would be the most effective program for her and she had been toying with finding an additional personal trainer who specialised in some of the more practical, street focused martial disciplines, such as krav maga, kali, savate or systema. So, when she noted the entry in Ian's black book pointing her to this gym and its owner it felt like providence (or Ian's gentle guiding hand from beyond the grave) was providing her with a solution to her problem. Hence her turning up at this unexpectedly mainstream gym at this god awful time in the morning to try and find the contact Ian had mentioned. Normally she would have been considerably more hesitant about approaching a strange male in these circumstances, but she knew by the inclusion of this man’s name in her Uncle’s ledger that she had nothing to be concerned about. Ian's contact might not be willing to help her, but at the very least he wouldn't hurt her, at least not without extensive provocation. 

Her contact was the owner of the gym and it seemed logical to Alex that the best way to find him was to try the small office at the back of the gym, hard against the brick vaulting of the walls. She could see that there was the outline of a man seated at a document strewn desk visible through the glass panes that made up the partition wall that separated the office from the main gym floor. His head rose from his perusal of his paperwork to track her approach before she had made it halfway across the gym floor and Alex had to admire his situational awareness, as her progress across the space had been habitually silent. He was black British; maybe a few years younger than Ian would have been now if he had lived, mid to late forties perhaps, with dark hair shaven down to the skull, hulking broad shoulders and a bull neck. But the eyes that fixed on her as she made her way across the gym belied the stereotype of the muscle bound oaf. They were dark, but narrowed and very keen and apart from the merest flicker of masculine appreciation when they initially scanned her, were refreshingly analytical, rather than falling into the increasingly commonplace trap of men who looked at her, pigeon holed her as a leggy blond and then didn't bother to look any deeper. No, this man saw something else, maybe the trained grace of her movements, or the subtle signs of a musculature developed from four years of regularly fighting for her life, or maybe, she thought, when she met his gaze, it was simply like noting like, one thousand yard stare meeting with another.

He shifted as she came abreast of the open door and leaned back in his chair before speaking, taking a moment to give her a quick once over yet again.

She essayed a flash of a smile in greeting. "Morning. Are you Mr Halestown?"

He nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off her. "I might be. And who are you? I don't recognise you as one of my members."

She shrugged. "That's because I'm not. One of your members, that is. But I would like to be."

His gaze raked over her once again, considering, before he replied. "We're not really open for the morning yet. First session isn't until seven. And if you want to sign up you'll have to have an assessment with one of my trainers before you can start."

She considered him in her turn and then slowly shook her head in disagreement. "I'm not really looking to be one of your standard members, Mr Halestown."

He frowned at her. "Then what are you looking for, girlie? We don't do any fancy pampering here. If you want your _Box-Exercise_ ”, (his voice betrayed his opinion of _that_ option very clearly) “or any of your Body Combat shite you've come to the wrong gym. Although I'm happy to give you the address of the Virgin Active down at the Barbican if that's the case." 

Alex smiled slowly, both a little disappointed and a little amused by Halestown's failure to recognise that she really wasn't the kind of girl you put into a Box-Exercise class. At least if you didn't want it to collapse into mayhem. But she was used to being underestimated. It came with being young, and blond, and objectively fairly attractive. Although she would have thought that the remnants of the giant bruise still yellowing on her face would have clued the older man into the fact that she wasn't here at this god awful time in the morning for any thing other than serious business.

"No. No Box-Exercise. And I'm in the right place. Or at least I think I am." She straightened up from her lean against the door-frame. "Ian Rider sent me."

Halestown stiffened, his brown eyes cooling and narrowing. "Ian Rider is dead."

Alex smiled a smile without any humour in it at all. "I know," she acknowledged quietly, her voice echoing softly in the early morning hush of the gym. "Doesn't mean he didn't send me."

For a moment they just stared at each other, Halestown clearly reassessing her, his gaze lingering on the fading contusion still marring one pale cheek.

"Who are you, girlie? What's your name?"

Alex's mouth quirked. Finally - the right questions.

"I'm Alex Rider. Ian's niece." 

It felt good to say it out loud, to claim that kinship. Whatever his faults had been, Ian Rider had been one hell of a man. She only hoped she could live up to that legacy. And for that, she needed this man's help.

At that Halestown's gaze sharpened even further. He ran his gaze searchingly over her face, categorising it, clearly searching for (and by the slight relaxation of his posture, finding) evidence of her claim. She wasn't worried. It was there every time she looked in the mirror, the stamp of John and Ian Rider across her features, a delicate, feminised version, but distinctive all the same.

He nodded slowly. "So then. Say that you are, indeed, Ian Rider's niece. Which you might be," he allowed judiciously. "You've got the look of him and I recall that he used to talk about having a little girl to look after at home. But say that you are – what do you want? And what's this nonsense about him having sent you? Ian Rider's four years dead and buried. And despite what your horror stories might tell you, girlie, the dead don't talk to no-one amongst the living."

She shifted in the entrance way, that temper of hers rising a little at his scepticism before she clamped down on it. She couldn't afford to mess this up.

"No-one knows Ian's dead better than I, Mr Halestown. But that doesn't mean he didn't send me." At the older man's raised eyebrow of enquiry she continued. "Ian left me your name as a contact. Just in case a situation ever arose where I might need additional training." The coach's eyebrow had risen again at her use of "additional" training but his mouth settled into a firm line and he shook his head slowly.

"I don't what was in your uncle's mind when he left you my name, girlie. But this isn't that kind of gym. We don't do any of the girlie stuff that you might like, or any basic self defence. This is a hard core boxing and MMA gym, not a Fitness First."

Alex smiled, again totally without humour. "I guessed that, Mr Halestown. I'm not blind. And to be honest, it's not even the boxing and the MMA that interest me, although I'm happy to dabble in them if you think it's appropriate. It's not those I need."

"Then what do you need, girlie?"

"I _need_ what only you can provide, Mr Halestown. I need what you gave my Uncle. I need to learn how to fight to _kill_."

Her pronouncement dropped into the silence between them like stones into a still pond, the ripples spreading further out in ever increasing concentric circles. 

He stared at her for a moment, taken aback and then shook his head. "You don't need that, girlie. If you've got a problem I can get you a good self defence instructor, and then you can go to the police for anything more serious. What your uncle and I did? That's not the stuff you teach a young girl."

Alex bit down the sarcastic rejoinder that threatened to burst up from the depths of her gut at his casual condescension. 

"But that's what I need."

"But why?" Halestown seemed genuinely puzzled and Alex sighed internally. It was clear that she wasn't going to be able to get what she wanted here without a certain level of disclosure.

"Do you know what my uncle did?"

Halestown considered that, head tilted to one side as he continued to stare at her. "I had an inkling...." his voice tailed off. "He never told me directly, but after he left the Regiment I had a fair idea where he might have ended up. And although no-one ever told me, I'm assuming that's what got him killed as well."

She found herself nodding before she thought at the truth of that statement. "That's right. My uncle died doing his job; doing the things that he felt most needed doing. And even with all of his training and all of his skill, they still got to him."

"All right," allowed Halestown. "I guessed as much. But what's that got to do with you?"

Alex smiled, a rictus grin totally lacking in humour. "Well that job that got him killed? Now, I'm doing it too." 

Halestown stilled and then leaned back in his chair as he looked at her. For a moment there was silence between them.

"Why?"

She shrugged dismissively. "Would you ask a _man_ that? Take your pick, family tradition, early training, I don't know. But I do know it's the thing I need to do and unlike Ian, I don't have the benefit of decades worth of operational field experience to help me beat the odds. And to rectify that I need you."

He frowned. "Why me?"

"I told you. Ian sent me." His look demanded an explanation. "Ian left me your name and contact details,” she clarified. “He said that you were the best at what you teach." Halestown didn't deny it, she noted before she played her trump card. "And he said that you owed him one."

She watched that sink in for a moment, the cool brown eyes warming in nostalgia and reluctant amusement. "He would say that, too, the bastard. He was never one to forget a debt that was owed." 

At her enquiring look he explained, his whole demeanour so much more relaxed than just a few moments before. "We were both in the Falklands together, in the Paras back in '82. He was a subbie, a sub-lieutenant," he clarified at her confused look. "Just out of Sandhurst and Selection he was and I was a wet as anything behind the ears Trooper. But despite the fact that he was only about two years older than me he looked after us all." He chuckled wryly in recollection. "Like a mother hen, he was. But he still saved my life twice in so many days."

He glanced back at her, his eyes assessing once more. "Wasn't the last time, neither. We ended up in the Regiment together for a number of years before he jumped the fence. Lots of stupid unofficial wars in dirty places and a few that were official as well. He shot a sniper that had me pinned in Sarajevo, and then there was Iraq...."

"The first Desert Storm?"

He shrugged. "And the second. I was just ending my tour by then, and your uncle had jumped over to the dark side but we bumped into each other in Babylon, as you did, and he got me out of a very tight spot." He looked her over, clinically this time, analysing her weaknesses and Alex inwardly sighed in relief. That wasn't the look of a man who was about to tell her to cut her losses and bugger off. He'd clearly come to some sort of a decision.

"So I suppose I do owe him after all." He straightened. "Right girlie. For Ian's sake, I'll give you a go. But I don't teach this kind of stuff very much any more, for good reason, and if I make it obvious what I'm doing the boys in my straight boxing and MMA rosters are going to get suspicious and start asking questions. Hell, my coaches and _trainers_ are going to start wanting to know what's going on. Because it's not exactly pleasant what I'm going to teach you and it's not exactly legal either. And in the process you're probably going to get the shit beaten out of you, so I doubt it will be enjoyable." He regarded her steadily. "Still want to give it a go?"

She grinned sardonically at him. "It's not so much a matter of 'want' you see, as 'have too'." She shook her head resignedly.

"Don't worry, Mr Halestown. I promise you, I have a sufficiency of motivation. And unfortunately, having the shit kicked out of me is something I'm only too familiar with. In fact, it's in an attempt to have the shit kicked out of me somewhat less, that I looked you up."

"Fair enough, girlie. And call me Eddie. That 'Mr Halestown" shit is for officers, and I was certainly never one of those." He pushed up from his chair, gathering a sheaf of papers from various cubbyholes as he did so and thrusting them at her. "Fill these in. It's membership, contact details and all that shite." He caught the cautious look with which she regarded the amount of personal details demanded by the paperwork and nodded. "Don't worry. All I need for you is whatever name you're willing to give me and a contact phone number. Any contact phone number as long as it works. Oh – and any details of past training and a medical history. We'll keep you formally off the books." He moved past her into the main gym and she followed him. 

"You'll pay cash," he informed her over his shoulder. "And we'll do this here, three mornings a week at 6am until I say otherwise. I might also want to put you into rotation with some of my MMA guys if I think it's appropriate, in order to widen your skill set." 

She nodded in acknowledgement.

"What if I need to go away for work?"

He shrugged. "That's fine. We'll work it out as we go. I'm not an unrealistic man, girlie, and I get that, if you are telling the truth about doing what you do, there are going to be times when you can't make it."

He turned to face her and stabbed a finger at her for emphasis. "But if that's the case I expect you to let me know as soon as you can, right? I'll give you all my contact details. I don't need much, just text a 'No' to me from your phone and I'll know that you need to cancel. But," he shook his head. "You’d better remember. You leave me hanging too many times, or you don't turn up, or you refuse to listen or pull your weight?" He gave her a look that left no room for argument. "Then, owing your uncle or not -I'm gone. I don't have the time to waste. You get me?"

She nodded emphatically. "I do. I appreciate that this is an imposition, and I'm grateful, really." She smiled that humourless smile again. "And if you can keep me alive I'll be even more grateful, I promise." 

Eddie snorted. "Well, I'll see what I can do." He walked around her, frowning as he analysed her physique, looking for weaknesses, rubbing his chin as he did so. "Okay then. We'll start properly tomorrow. I want you here ready at 6am, in some basic training clothes." She nodded in acknowledgement. "You run?"

"Yes." She confirmed. "About seven to twelve miles a day." 

He grunted in satisfaction. "I thought so. You've got some of the build of it. At least it means your cardiovascular should be in pretty decent shape." He nodded to himself as he came to some kind of conclusion and looked up from his clinical analysis of her legs to meet her gaze. "I'm going to tear you right down and build you up again, girl. It's going to be hard and it's going to be nasty and it's certainly not going to be pretty. You still want in?"

She inclined her head in acceptance. "I still want in."

He chuckled roughly and nodded. "Just like your damn uncle. Not enough sense to come in from the bloody rain." He shook his head in amused recollection and extended a wide meaty hand towards her. "Then welcome to Halestown's Bastards, Alex Rider. Welcome to Hell."

She reached out a hand to clasp his, her long slender fingers belaying the strength in her grip that had his eyebrows rising in amused respect. "Thank you Eddie," she replied, overly sweetly. “It's a pleasure to be here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Please review!_


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _All comments gratefully received. And as always, yes the spelling is British, so apologies for that._

_The Southbank, London, 20th July 2008_

It was already pretty late in the evening by the time she hit the Southbank, and thankfully the weekend crowds had already thinned out as sensible people aimed to spend their Sunday evening getting ready for school or work the next day. 

Accordingly, Alex was able to maintain a consistent pace as she weaved between pedestrians, long legs eating up the ground steadily as she ran. It was one of her newer routes to jog and still novel enough to be enjoyable, as well as having one of the best views in London, the Thames stretching out beside the Southbank and Bankside in its endless pewter ribbon, festooned and tamed by the array of bridges that girded its length. 

She would jump on the Tube at Sloane Square, bounce off again at Waterloo after changing to the Jubilee line and then run the length of the Southbank and Bankside, crossing over the river at Tower Bridge and then retracing her steps on the North shore until she hit the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Square. It was exactly 7.7 miles and easy on the flat, providing a perfect cardiovascular work out with great views and a decent distance (although on the low side of what was normal for her) when she was too banged up to be really up for anything more challenging. Like now, for instance. She hit the ground slightly unevenly and winced, the jar travelling up her spine from her ribs which were still protesting the treatment Eddie had given them the day before.

Halestown hadn't been joking about how he was going to train her but she could already see (and feel) the results of his brutally effective regime. It had only been a few weeks but she was already marginally faster, more exact in her responses, and there was a palatable increase in the intensity of the blows she managed to land. Plus, he had a myriad of dirty tricks that she hadn't even thought of, as well as a securely locked away stash of weapons that had raised even her eyebrows when she had first been granted access. 

More to the point, he had a 20 year repertoire of experience in using every weapon he had kept, gained in hot spots and illicit wars, street fights and door to door battles to take various cities. And, unlike some fighters, he understood how to teach what he knew, and rather than just survive himself, could break every move and counter-move down to its simplest and most ruthlessly effective form, make sure that she internalised it, and then help her build it up to its previous level of complexity.

The only flip side of the entire process was that his teaching style was as brutal as he had threatened, and he was a great believer in pain as a motivator for the quick internalisation of new technique. 

So he would show her a move a few times, let her run through it twice at a slow tempo and then just attack her at an ever increasing speed in such a way that the logical counter-move was the response that she had just been taught. It was, at least for her, an effective teaching style, as there was no greater motivation to learn to react than a weapon, whether fist, or blade, or staff coming towards her at a substantial velocity. But it didn't exactly leave her short of bruises. Although they had mutually agreed that he should avoid her face, as a bruised face on an attractive young woman tended to garner far too much attention, both supportive and not, and the last thing she wanted was to bring herself to any official notice. She doubted that Six would be amused if that was the case. Apart from that, the only boundary Eddie set was to avoid permanent injury. 

_Temporary_ injury was, at least in his lexicon, merely an incentive to learn faster, even if only to avoid the pain he cheerfully inflicted upon her. And she had to admit that it worked, even if only for her. She even enjoyed the no holds brutality of their workouts as a welcome distraction from her ever churning to- do list. But then, she had always been somewhat perverse.

By now she had managed to work her way through the thinning crowds that still thronged the area outside the Royal Festival Hall and the National Theatre, loping under the arches of Waterloo Bridge's protective enclosure before stretching out as the crowds grew steadily scarcer, feet hitting the tarmac in a deliciously mind stealing way, the narcotic of physical exertion starting to make its presence felt. It was only a matter of ten minutes or so before she hit the stretch of the embankment that flanked the strip of shale beach that was really only visible at low tide and, like the previous times she had run this route in the evening, she found herself slowing down, her attention caught by the same bunch of lads and one girl she had seen before, who were using the beach as a convenient practice spot for what looked like free running, or parkour as it was formally known. The group was a constantly moving feast of rolls and falls, bouncing acrobatically against and off the sea wall and onto the wet sand of the beach and the sheer athleticism of their joyous movements stirred a pang deep in Alex's chest. It looked like _fun_. Which wasn't something she'd experienced much of these last few years. She paused in her run to lean against the railing to watch them, still as intrigued as she had been the first time she had seen them. It still looked like fun, the flexibility and strength they were betraying calling to the gymnast in her, but, with the more analytical hat she was increasingly wearing, she realised it also looked at though it could be _useful_. She had a basic gymnast's training and flexibility, which coupled with her martial artist's skill set, had been instrumental in extracting her from a number of extremely dubious situations over the years. But learning this… she narrowed her eyes in consideration as she watched one of the practitioners throw themselves at a wall and somehow almost bounce up it like some form of human spider man, learning this could really _help_ her. Which was an even better reason to try it, than her original motivation of how much fun it looked. 

Mind made up, she padded off the pedestrianized roadway and made her way down the well worn stairs that led down to the beach, electing to at least get a closer look. But she had only been watching silently for a few minutes when one of the performers, maybe a few years older than her, with at least some Mediterranean ancestry from his olive skin and sable hair, clocked her interest and ambled over, an appreciative gleam in his dark eyes as he took in the long lithe curves and lines of her physique, clearly delineated by the tightness of her running tights and long sleeved t-shirt. She shifted slightly, automatically taking up a defensive stance and he paused, head cocked as he considered her, clearly recognising at least part of what she was telegraphing, for when he started towards her again his approach was slower and he stopped well outside her personal space.

“Hey,” he nodded at her. “I think I've seen you before – you run this route a lot don't you?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes, yeah.” Her response felt a little strange and rather awkward and she realised that it had been months since she had the occasion to just talk casually to any one near her own age. And somehow, over the last four years of fighting to survive and her own partly self inflicted social isolation, she'd lost the knack. She grimaced internally. Yet another thing to work on. 

Her interrogator regarded her silently for a moment, clearly intrigued and she shifted, uneasy under the intense scrutiny. After a second he smiled. “I've noticed. You always slow down to watch us. You interested in the game, or,” his smirk widened, showing crooked white teeth, “in one of the players?”

She shook her head choppily. “Just the game, I'm afraid,” her tone was cool and he shrugged casually, grinning, unconcerned by the implicit rejection. She raised an eyebrow, amused despite herself at his cockiness and raised her chin to indicate the group still practising their falls and leaps. “That's parkour, isn't it?”

His smile sharpened and he nodded, as he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his baggy trousers. “Yeah, that's right.”  
“Is it hard to learn? And do you think I could?”

He rocked back on his heels as he considered her request, clearly slightly surprised. Alex guessed they didn't have that many girls asking whether they could throw themselves off walls voluntarily. This time when he scanned her physique, his gaze was assessing rather than mildly lecherous and his eyebrows rose as he rubbed a hand across his jaw, clearly taking in the lines of muscle outlined by her gear, her height, the length of her legs and the inherent athleticism of her frame.

“I reckon you could. You look like you're fit enough.” His eyes narrowed. “You got any climbing training or anything like that?”

She shrugged. “Climbing, gymnastics, dance, martial arts.” His eyebrows rose again in increased respect as she rattled off the litany of skills and when she finished, he nodded. 

“That's a pretty good base.” His smile widened again. “You've also got to have a certain lack of self preservation. How do you do on _that_ front?”

Despite herself, she smiled back. It was clear that he was a cocky bastard, but at least he had a sense of humour. “I have been known to err slightly in that direction, on occasion.” 

He sniggered, “ _On occasion?_ ' I reckon we've got a posh bird here. You a posh bird?”

She regarded him coolly. “If I am, would it matter?”

“Not to us. But we don’t get many of your type wanting to play with us. We're mostly an East End crew. What about you? Knightsbridge?”

She shook her head briefly. “Chelsea.”

He barked out a laugh. “I _knew_ it. So West End girl, you up to slumming it with some Walthamstow boys?”

She looked him up and down and then raised a dismissive eyebrow. “If that's what it takes to learn-I'll slum it with any crew I want.”

He grinned back at her, clearly liking her tough front. “Then come on, Chelsea Girl and I'll introduce you to the lads.” He waited until she had moved level with him before he turned to pad back up the beach, glancing at her as he did so. “So, parkour eh? Shopping not enough for you?” 

She smirked internally - if only he knew, and then she turned her most vacuous 'blond' expression upon him, exaggerating her accent to its extremes.

“Well, even Harvey Nics gets boring after a while. And there is only so much abuse that Daddy's credit card can take.”

He snorted in laughter. “Right, right, get it, lay off the rich girl. But seriously, why’re you interested? We don't get many girls wanting to do this.”

She shrugged, mirroring his body language. “I like throwing myself off shit. What can I say?”

He grinned. “Well, you've come to the right place for that, all right. You got a name, Chelsea Girl?”

For a second Alex hesitated, and then her mind flashed to one of the many aliases that Ian had so painstakingly created for her. She smiled. Trust Ian to always come through, even from beyond the grave.

“I'm Sarah. Just Sarah.”

He nodded. “Nice to meet you, just Sarah. So, you’re going to do this thing?”

Alex looked up the sea wall to where a number of the crew were hanging like spiders and her smile widened. “Yeah,” she confirmed softly. “I'm really going to do this thing.”

He shrugged in acceptance. “Well then, let's get started.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

To her recollection it was the start of one of the best periods of her life and in memory that summer took on a lambent glow whenever she recalled it. The house soon sold, for considerably above the asking price, to a banker with a young family, who remarkably didn't even seem to be a dick, despite his unfortunate choice of profession. She had a few semi-melancholy days of packing up those few personal items that she wanted to keep, photos and art and family heirlooms mostly, alongside her uncle's library and one or two pieces of furniture and putting it all in storage but at the end of it all she walked through the empty rooms of her childhood home, feeling nothing more at the thought of never returning than a mild sense of loss coupled with an overwhelming sense of relief.

The exchange and completion went by without a hitch, shepherded through by James Croyden's efficient minions and, not eager to make another purchase until she had found exactly what she wanted, she banked the money, and found herself a small flat to rent in Borough. It had only taken a few days for her to work out what kind of place she wanted to purchase but she knew it was likely to take some time to source that kind of property and then even longer to subsequently renovate it. So she had left very specific instructions with a number of reputable commercial property agents who specialised in industrial buildings to contact her immediately if anything suitable became available and then put it out of her mind. For after all, she had other things to think about.

But she still liked to think of the rooms of her childhood home warm with the sounds of family life once more, and wishing to set the new owners off to the best possible start, she made sure not to neglect the traditional courtesies. She liberated a bottle of very good champagne from her uncle's wine cellar before she had half the contents stored and arranged for the rest to be auctioned off, and left it, with a card, in the kitchen, for the new owners to make the traditional toast on taking possession of their new home. It was an excellent vintage too, and she thought that Ian would have approved.

And then she walked out of the doors of the house in Chelsea and never looked back, leaving the possibility of Alex Rider, average Chelsea Girl and potential fashionista (if it had ever been there in the first place) behind her forever, along with any aspirations to a “normal” life. Normal was boring and she had long since decided that she held with Tipu Sultan’s old adage and it really was better to live one day as a tiger than a thousand years as a sheep. 

In comparison with her trauma of her last few years, the rest of the summer was a halcyon period of rest and freedom, at least by her rather perverse standards. Yes, she reported regularly to Vauxhall Cross for medical checks, or at least initially, but after the rampant lack of care her previous ‘employer’ had shown with regard to her numerous injuries gained over the years in the field, she found the close watch almost comforting, although she didn't doubt that would change in the future once she got used to it. But apart from those inspections, the collective rank and file at Six were under strict instructions from M to leave her alone and, although she was genuinely looking forward to commencing her agent training in September, she also knew that once she had done so, her free time would be severely curtailed. So she set herself the goals of getting properly fit and healthy again, mastering, or at least beginning to master the roster of skills that she thought might be useful to her in her future position but at the same time taking advantage of this limbo period of freedom that she had been granted to actually enjoy herself. 

Eddie’s training provided a structure for most of her days, getting her up early enough that it discouraged any tendencies she might have had to sleep late in the morning in typical teenage fashion. After her session she would run back to Borough, which at just over three miles was a pleasant cool down, sometimes stopping in at the market on the way back to her flat to grab some food, before she spent of her day however circumstances and her inclinations dictated. She wandered all over London, taking pleasure in being a tourist in her own city, indulging her trammelled love of the historical and quirky in one of the best cities for such explorations in the world. She did the Highgate Cemetery tour, and wound through the vaults at Waterloo, visited small independent cinemas and random museums such as the John Soames collection and the one at the Wellcome Trust as well as the greats such as the British Museum and the colossus that was the Victoria & Albert in South Kensington. She fell asleep in parks from London Fields to the Crystal Palace, basking in the sun, went deep underground to visit the Silver Vaults at Chancery Lane, watched a case at the Royal Courts of Justice, stood in Middle Temple Hall where Shakespeare first performed Twelve Night and then ambled around Temple Church, which the Knights Templars had built after they returned from the Crusades. She spent a sunlit half day on the narrow boat tour from London Zoo through Regent’s Canal to Camden Lock, and bought Doc Martins and Converse in a rainbow of colours in Covent Garden. There was always some where to go, or something to see, and buoyed up with the freedom of essentially unlimited funds (within reason) and a very flexible schedule there was always something to do as well. 

But it was the small pleasures that gave her most joy, good food and the chance to enjoy it without worrying about the cost, her own fumbling attempts to learn to cook beyond heating up soup and toast, the pure bodily pleasure of finally being at full fitness, without the overwhelming hunger and mental and physical exhaustion that had been grinding her down over the last four years, and which had accelerated exponentially in the past year as she and Blunt waged their personal war of deadly attrition. Sleeping heavily at night, with the knowledge that no one (she had leased her present accommodation under an alias) who might want to harm her knew where she slept, finally getting to the stage where she woke up each morning rested as opposed to merely slightly less exhausted. And as her general physical condition slowly shifted back to that of the extremely fit eighteen year old she actually was from the sub par level she had been operating at there was the rediscovery of the pure joy in movement and mastery of new skills that she had always rejoiced in before Ian had died.

Eddie was as brutal as he had promised he would be, but he was also supremely effective and as Alex recovered her natural high levels of physical energy she found herself more and more enthralled by everything she was learning. And if Eddie’s lessons weren't enough she had discovered that she had been right, parkour wasn't just useful - it had turned out to be a hell of a lot of fun as well. 

The lads in the crew were casually friendly; at least as soon as they got over the shocks of having an attractive girl appear in their midst and the inevitable peacocking that resulted in. But once she had made it clear to them that she wasn't interested, and that she genuinely was only there to learn, they did her the courtesy of backing off, only the occasional appreciative once over denoting that they even remembered that she was female. 

It probably helped that her preferred outfits tended to be both baggy and more than a touch androgynous. That wasn't exactly deliberate, but it wasn't entirely unintentional either. Alex was aware, objectively, of how men increasingly seemed to see her, but she wasn't at all comfortable with the attention. In fact it made her skin crawl in a way that very few other things did. Accordingly, she utilised any tactics she could to deflect the male gaze and to pass unnoticed. This at least partly explained why she tended to slope around in outsize men’s jeans, loosely belted around the slender curve of her waist and giant hoodies, with her mass of golden hair scrunched back into a messy bun or roughly plaited. The rest of it was a combination of innate practicality,(after all she didn’t have anyone to impress, plus the outfits were comfortable, and they allowed her flexibility of movement) and what she privately admitted was probably a lamentable (for a girl) lack of fashion sense or interest in clothes. She’d just never really seen the point. And although Ian had been great at teaching her to hotwire a car, climb a mountain or stab someone in the throat with a rolled up newspaper, he had never bothered about clothes either when he was off duty, slobbing around the house in ancient ripped jeans and worn out sweatshirts. So no role model there. Maybe if her Mum had lived, or if she’d had more girl friends, some interest in how she looked might have rubbed off on her from them. But as it was she seemed to have bypassed the fashion gene entirely. Except for her love of great big chunky boots and Converse. _Those_ she had in a veritable rainbow of colours.

But getting back to the parkour…the parkour was just _fun_. 

She had the impression that the crew was faintly surprised by how quickly she had picked it up, but in retrospect they wouldn't have been if they had understood her background. She had been a naturally athletic and active child who had been trained by Ian Rider almost since before she could walk, and a lot of that training had encompassed elements that had ensured that she had maintained her childhood flexibility into young adulthood. Plus, she had been rock climbing since she was seven, and that coupled with her gymnast’s sense of balance, her field honed reflexes and cardio fitness and the fact that she was a hell of a lot stronger than she looked, meant that she handled the physical demands of the sport with ease. But to be good at parkour you didn't just have to have the athletic ability, you also had to combine it with a certain raw physical courage, a carefully calculated disdain for the possibility of injury and the ability to be absolutely in the moment, while still maintaining sufficient cool detachment that you could assess and calculate angles and landing points even as the adrenaline ran rampant through your veins. And whether it was the fault of genetics, or the rough and tumble nature of her upbringing, or the vagrancies of the last four years the upshot was that Alex had all of those attributes in abundance. And she didn't just _like_ parkour, she _loved_ it. 

There was a freedom to it, to the way it allowed her to move across the city at ease, passing by earth bound pedestrians in a blur of speed as she utilised every part of the urban environment to traverse the metropolis, feet hardly touching the ground. And later on in the summer when she felt more comfortable in her own abilities there was the topography of London’s rooftops to explore, the adrenaline surging as she leapt from building to building, following the crew’s lead, passers by on the streets not even realising that they were there, unless they should unexpectedly glance up to see them briefly silhouetted against the skyline as they bounced and soared from eighteen century edifice to glass and steel tower. London’s crevices and ancient buildings became her playground, their roofs her transport system when she couldn't be bothered with more pedestrian means of locomotion and the sprawling expanse of the city, already familiar, became beloved in the way that the curves and dips of a lover’s body might have, had her circumstances been different. And like any great passion, the more she fell in love with her city, the more she wanted to protect it, to watch over it and its people and to make sure it never came to any harm. Which she would, she determined, even if the price was eventually everything she had to give. But that was for the future. For now she was young and strong and free, and she gloried in it, somehow managing to recapture what she had thought had been lost forever under the weight of Blunt’s machinations, her youth and that sense of endless possibilities stretching out before her that came with it. And somehow that was her most satisfying victory over Blunt of them all.

The crew only knew her as Sarah, Sarah Landsdown, but after an initial period of adjustment they accepted her as one of them and after a while started inviting her to come out clubbing with them at the gigs and venues that they frequented. At first she declined, reluctant to complicate the already convoluted back story she had to keep in mind for her alter ego as Sarah, but eventually they wore her down and she found herself being dragged off to clubs and gigs around the city. And in the vaults of Vauxhall, the super clubs of Clerkenwell and the dives of Brixton and Waterloo she made yet another discovery, the mind numbing, semi euphoric transcendence that clubbing could bring her, the freedom from thought that a hard beat could lull her into. There was anonymity, and a physical release as narcotic as any a hard workout had ever provided, but also the collective buzz of being part of something larger than herself, something joyful and free that was as intoxicating as any booze and she soon became a regular, downing nothing more alcoholic than water but euphorically dancing her way through the night and into the morning, sweat sticking her clothes to her back, just one more young face in the crowd.

The summer passed far more quickly than she would have anticipated as she lost herself in the pedestrian pleasures of grasping new skills and enjoying new experiences and ensuring that she would be as fit and healthy as possible in advance of the commencement of her new career with Six. Medical released her from her weekly sessions in early August and she celebrated by taking a break from Eddie’s ministrations and taking a trip up to the Bothy. It had been years since she’d been up to the cottage at Achnacarry, but Ian had paid substantially in advance for the small property’s maintenance and once the money had finally dried up a year before the farmer who owned the adjacent land- Sandy McPherson, had kept an eye on it for the sake of his long friendship with the older Rider. So Alex had contacted McPherson, who had been delighted to hear from her after such a long absence and as a consequence when she arrived the bothy had been opened up and aired out.

She spent the next few weeks hiking and climbing, or occasionally simply rambling through the Scottish countryside when she was feeling lazy. There was no TV but she had carted a substantial chunk of Ian’s extensive library on the history of the clandestine services up with her, and she spent the long Scottish summer evenings reading, or eating dinner at the local pub, where the landlord had known her since infancy and made sure that the local lads and the tourists left her alone. By the time the end of August rolled around she was tanned a sun kissed gold and supremely relaxed. 

Sometimes she forgot that she was only eighteen, her experiences over the last few years sufficient to prematurely age her, but the extended break she enjoyed over the summer was enough, that with the natural resilience of youth, she was able to shelf the worst of what had happened to her and move on. She couldn't forget it, but she didn't have to dwell on it. She would never have chosen what had happened to her, but she was determined to take what value she could from it, and if necessary, ignore the rest. For after all she was a Rider and her family was not one that traditionally had any time for self pity.

September saw her back in London and back to Eddie’s tortuous training regime, with the added joys of parkour to entertain her. But the 26th came up quicker than she would have expected, and after one last small fit of rebellion before she kowtowed to the rules of Six, she found herself climbing the stairs at 85 Albert Embankment in her baggy suit, a combination of excitement and nerves knotting her stomach. She verified her credentials at the security desk and was briskly waved over to an area in Reception where a passel of individuals of varying ages and ethnicities was hovering uncertainly, carefully exchanging names and personal details in that awkward dance of extreme politeness that characterised the British middle classes at their most self conscious. It was a bit like going to a new school she mused, or perhaps what starting university might have been like if she had taken that opportunity. She loitered on the edge of the group, automatically scoping out her surroundings, taking everything in, occasionally making polite small talk but mostly staying silent and memorising names and faces for future reference.

She was aware that their group was receiving a certain amount of attention from the various staff and other visitors to Six, but it was mostly of the cursory or slightly nostalgic variety, variations on _“I remember when that was me…”_ rather than anything more focused. Which is why she was slightly slower on the uptake than she might otherwise have been when she first felt the sharp, prickly sensation on the back of her neck that through brutal experience she had learned to associate with someone watching her.

She glanced around, not seeing anyone who was paying their group any especial attention. But she could still feel that phantom sensation and it was one she had learned to trust. She shifted to track the rest of the atrium, still not seeing any likely suspect and scowled in confusion. There was someone….she _knew_ that there was someone…. Caught by an urge she didn't question she shifted her scrutiny to the upper levels of Reception, where there was a balcony running around three quarters of the space in a U-shape. She scanned one side, not seeing anyone and then shifted on her heel to track the opposite side. Still no-one. She glanced briefly at the central space but then someone moving on the opposite side of the room caught her attention and she slipped a little further into the pack of new recruits to get a better look. No –just a woman moving from one door to another and only sparing the newcomers a brief, vaguely interested glance. She moved back to her original position and frowned, slightly unsettled by the contradictory messages her eyes and her senses were giving her. Then there was a sudden flash of movement on the central balcony that she caught out of the corner of her eye and she turned to track it. _There_.

There was a man, a fairly tall man by what little she could see, leaning on the edge of the balcony railing, staring down at her and smirking. White blond hair topped a rough hewn face that was compelling in its masculinity, despite the irritating shit-eating lazy grin that he was sporting. He had the tan of a Brit who spent a lot of time outdoors, and the immaculate dark grey suit he was wearing (Savile Row, some part of her brain recognised from all those years of seeing Ian leave the house similarly attired for work) did nothing to disguise the breadth of his shoulders or the thickness of his biceps that strained against the expensive wool. He caught her looking back at him and his grin widened even as he gave her a not-so-casually-assessing glance. Alex reared back, immediately both irritated and on her guard at this stranger’s oh-so-entitled once over. He noticed her look and smirked again, even as his attention momentarily shifted away from her to track the rest of the atrium in a way that she immediately recognised from her years of professional paranoia. It was as obvious a sign to an operative with her recent experience as though he had waved a giant banner emblazoned with ‘Shooter’ over his head. 

He was at least as dangerous as she was but he had clearly and erroneously dismissed her as a threat. More fool him. She stared up at him, the rest of the atrium and its bustle fading away to background noise, momentarily dismissed while she focused on the more immediate risk. The part of her that had kept her alive for four long years but that had been sleeping for the last few months of her recuperation woke up, shook itself and started to pad its way back up to the entrance to its cave, yawning as it did so, pink tongue running over sharp fangs. His attention was still on the rest of the atrium but the part of her that was in control now, the part that answered to ‘Rider’ far more easily than to ‘Alex’ welcomed the opportunity to review him for weaknesses unimpeded by his reciprocal interest. 

Alex was conscious of the other graduates milling around her, but the vast majority of her attention was focused on that lazily lounging figure. The survivor in her noted his elevated position and her vulnerability should he decide to shoot and worked out evasion strategies, while at the same time tracking every movement that he made. There, the tilt of his head, there was some stiffness in the right shoulder that might denote an old injury. But then the casual way he moved his weight from side to side, unexpectedly fluid for a man of his musculature warned her not to rely to heavily on any perceived weakness. She tilted her head to study him more closely just as he looked back at her and caught her blatant and tactical assessment. His head came back in surprise and the look on his face changed, from the casual mildly salacious interest he had been showing before, to a fascinated and far more intent assessment, predator finally recognising fellow predator. She stared back at him, letting a tad more of her veneer peel away than she had intended, exposing a little of what lurked beneath. But rather than be intimidated he straightened and his smile sharpened and widened as he met her neutral tactical assessment with one of his own, but one that was far more charged and overtly sexual than hers had been.

His eyes raked over her body from toes to head as though he was trying to strip her naked with his gaze and despite her best efforts Alex felt her temper start to rise. Not content with looking her over once, he did it again, blatantly ignoring the increasing irritation that must have been obvious from her body language. Finally he flicked his eyes up to her face, as he still grinned that shark toothed smile and Alex bit back a snarl of sheer irritation. By now, if he had been reachable she would have slapped him at the very least, despite any complications that action may have caused. But then his eyes met hers and every part of her stilled, caught in his gaze, just as he seemed to be caught in hers. It was like looking into a mirror – or maybe not a mirror, maybe a premonition of things to come. The same tightly leashed aggression, the same latent violence trammelled not that far from the surface, the same weariness from everything that they had seen and done.

For a moment they stood frozen, simply staring at each other and then one of Alex's intake moved towards her so that she had to shift or bump into him. That broke the eye contact between them, and she was damned if she was going to give him the satisfaction of any more of her attention. He was standing straight now, seeking her gaze again, one hand curled around the balcony edge, white knuckled, but she was satisfied that he wasn't an actual immediate threat to her. So, with a pointed raise of an eyebrow, she gave him one last unimpressed look and then turned her back on him in clear dismissal. She could still feel the warmth of his eyes on her back but she purposefully ignored him until she felt that sense of his gaze disperse and breathed an inward sigh of relief. Her inner watchdog noted that she might have to deal with him later but she shrugged mentally. _That_ was a problem for another time.

Just then, there was a flurry of activity near the front of the group as someone official finally came to gather them up, and Alex found that she was caught up in the slipstream as her intake was quietly chivvied into the somewhat less than gentle embrace of Six. The next few days were a blur of assessments, lectures and new faces and she left the confines of Albert Embankment every night with her mind stuffed full of information and regulations, and had to work to sort all of the data that was being thrown at her from all angles and fashion it into a cohesive whole that she could internalise. And she still had to maintain her fitness regime, and turn up for Eddie's workouts, as a mere issue such as starting an entirely new career wasn't a sufficient excuse in the cantankerous old bastard's book to justify her slacking off. 

With all of that to deal with she didn't really have any time to think about the blond agent she had engaged in ocular psychological warfare with. And then there was Monkton to conquer, which was all encompassing enough that she fell into a dreamless sleep each night without any effort. As such, it wasn't until she sat down on the couch at Reception at headquarters on her return from training, waiting for her newly assigned mentor, that she realised she was in almost exactly the same position she had been the last time she'd been here when she had been a completely new recruit – and when she’d had that encounter with that arrogant male operative. She still had no idea who he was, but from what she’d learned about Six so far it was likely that he was a senior field officer. 

She snorted to herself; more fool him then, for underestimating her because she was a girl. With assumptions like that she was surprised he’d lasted as long as he had in the field. Absently, she scanned the balcony for any sight of her blond nemesis, but the only persons in view traversing the space had the body language of analysts or desk based workers, rather than the lazy sense of controlled lethality that the other agent had possessed. She shrugged mentally. She would deal with _that_ problem if it arose again. He had clearly been an arrogant bastard but she had dealt with far worse than a trace of arrogance before and survived. And if he pushed the envelope she could always demonstrate to him on a practical level why it was unwise to underestimate someone, just because they happened to be young, blond and female.

There was a click of determined stilettos on the marble floor of the lobby and Alex looked down from her perusal of the mezzanine level to see a young woman, probably in her early twenties, black British, very pretty and wearing an immaculately fitted pencil skirt suit and truly vertiginous heels making her rapid way across the expanse of Reception towards her. By the look of the welcoming smile that was being aimed her way and the sheaf of paperwork clutched in one perfectly manicured hand Alex guessed that this was probably her mysterious mentor and she scrambled to stand up to greet her, the other woman’s polished perfection immediately making her feel very young and very gawky and more than slightly terribly dressed. The older woman immediately held out a hand in greeting and Alex took it, feeling unexpectedly rather bashful as they shook, an emotion that was quickly vanquished by the warmth of the other girl's smile and the twinkle in her eyes.

“Hi - you must be Probationary Agent Rider! I'm Eve. Eve Moneypenny. In their infinite wisdom the powers that be have appointed me to be your mentor, God help you,” she laughed. 

Alex smiled back, still a little reticent but beginning to be won over by the sheer bonhomie the older woman was exuding and the clear intelligence in her gaze. This was clearly someone who knew what they were doing and she mentally sighed in relief.

“Hi, yes, I'm Alex Rider. But please, call me Alex.” 

“Only if you call me Eve. Excellent. Well,” Eve brandished the documents she was holding meaningfully. “As you can see, the Byzantine wheels of Six have been working overtime on your behalf, so unless you have any objections I think our first order of business is to get all of this squared away.” She turned on her heel, gesturing casually for Alex to accompany her back towards the entrance to the lobby that she had first appeared out of. “And then, I'll give you the two tours.”

Alex glanced over at her. “The _two_ tours?”

Eve nodded firmly, a bright smile stretching across her face. “The official one, with all of the useful information like how to get to the Mess, and where your cubicle is and the gym. And then the unofficial one, with all of the really interesting shit in it.”

Alex raised an amused eyebrow at the casual profanity, but forbore to comment. “The ' _really interesting shit_ '?” 

Eve's smile stretched into a grin. “Well, it is a building full of spies, after all. Interesting shit is almost compulsory, wouldn't you say?”

Despite her best intentions, Alex chuckled. “Well, if you say so.”

“I do,” confirmed Eve firmly. She glanced over at her mentee and smirked. “Welcome to the dark side, Alex Rider.” 

And with that she dragged her highly entertained new accomplice off into the depths of the building, Alex smiling inwardly as she padded in Moneypenny's energetic wake. Maybe this whole mentor business wouldn't be so bad after all.

However, meeting Eve Moneypenny did have one unexpected consequence. Alex was so atypically distracted by Eve's sheer _joie de vivre_ that she completely failed to notice the two figures who padded across the balcony just as she and Eve were crossing the lobby. But the slightly shorter of the two men certainly noticed her, and came to an abrupt stop as he cast a frank and admiring gaze over her departing figure.

 _“James_.” 

His companion paused in his turn and looked back at his friend, wondering why he had stopped.

“What?”

“Did you see _that_?”

Bond frowned, not sure what Trevelyan was referring to. His fellow Double O smirked and nodded his head to where the back of the blond girl that had caught his attention was just leaving the lobby.

“ _Fresh meat_.” Alec drawled and grinned lasciviously.

Bond glanced casually over at the object of 006's attentions and paused as he caught a fleeting glance of the young woman's profile as she turned to exit. It was the girl he had seen a few months ago, the one M had warned him off of. Alex. Alex Rider. And from the brief glimpse he'd just had of her, she was just as gorgeous as he remembered. And just as off limits.

“She must be one of the new Graduate intake,” Alec mused, oblivious to Bond's distraction. “I must find a way to introduce myself.”

“ _No_.” The instinctive response had issued from Bond's mouth before he realised and he stilled, struck by the strength of his own reaction.

His friend rocked back on his heels, clearly as taken aback by James' barked command as 007 was to have issued it.

“All right, I get it, you saw her first somehow, and you’ve got dibs.” Alec soothed the other man, as he shrugged. “Not a problem, I can have her later once you've had a chance to exercise your _droit de seigneur_.” He grinned callously. “You can soften her up for me. Once she's had a run in with you I'll seem like an absolute gentleman in comparison.” 

Bond frowned and shook his head. “No. I mean _no_ , Alec. You'll leave that girl alone. As will the other senior agents as well. She's off limits.”

Trevelyan scowled, not liking either Bond's tone or the absolutism of his order.

“Why should I? You know as well as I do that the Graduate intake are fair game.”

Bond turned away from the lobby, where his eyes had been fixed on the doorway through which Rider had exited and let his friend feel the full weight of his un-amused stare.

“Not this one. M's given orders that she's to be left alone. By _all_ of us.”

006 scoffed in disbelief. “Bollocks to that! When have you ever given a toss about M ordering you to stay away from a girl? And especially one that looks like that!” He gestured crudely to where Rider had last been seen.

“I do about this one. I don't want her hassled. You hear me?” He fixed the shorter man in place with an Arctic stare and unspoken, made it very clear to his friend what he would do if he heard that his instructions hadn't been obeyed. There were sometimes advantages to being the most feared agent in the Service. No one knew just how far Bond was willing to go if someone pissed him off. And very few individuals were willing to risk finding out.

Trevelyan scowled sullenly. “I hear you,” he grumbled. “But it's not going to make you very popular with the others if they have to forebear from sampling something that tasty.”

Bond turned back to the lobby, gazing over to where Rider had exited once again. “I really don't give a fuck, Alec. Just stay away from her. That girl gets left alone.”

And with one final glance he moved on, an irritated but suitably chastised 006 pacing along beside him. Bond didn't spare him a glance. He genuinely didn't give a fuck what the rest of them thought. If _he_ couldn't have that girl he'd be buggered if any of the rest of them got to touch a hair on her head. Alex Rider was under his protection from now on, whether she knew it or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Please review!_


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _With thanks to my eagle eyed and wonderfully pedantic beta - Snow Fox for her invaluable assistance. As always Brit spelling and vernacular warning ahead...._

**_MI6 Headquarters – 85 Albert Embankment – April 2009_**

“Do it again.”

“And again.”

“Last time.”

For the third time she moved in sequence, fluid and fast, ending up with the poor agent _(victim)_ she was sparring on the ground at her feet, valiantly attempting to hold in his groans.

Featherstone allowed himself the merest hint of an eyebrow raise of approval and she stepped back from the mat, her lips pressed together in satisfaction. Her trainer looked down at Agent Richardson who was still sprawled on the mat and a trace of amusement slipped in to his gaze. 

“I think that’s enough for today, Rider, Richardson. Get cleaned up and then Rider? Report to my office.”

She nodded. “Sir.” She reached down to offer her fellow agent a hand up, which he took, Featherstone noted. At the beginning of Rider’s tenure with Six Featherstone had noticed that there had been a certain resentment directed towards her. It seemed to have been more prevalent amongst the older male members of Six that she had been paired with for training purposes, mainly due to the fact that they found it incomprehensible that such a young girl could be _that good_. But by now they had moved past offended pride into resigned acknowledgement. Rider was simply an anomaly, like a freak hurricane or some other form of natural disaster and was accepted in the same way, something to be wondered at, preferably from a safe distance and treated with appropriate respect if that wasn't possible. In fact, watching the young agent repeatedly clean the clocks of men many years her senior with a ruthless, clinical efficiency had become a favoured spectator sport for some of their cadre. Especially for one.

Featherstone looked up at the balcony that ran around the edge of the main training space. Sure enough, there was Bond, just straightening from where he had been leaning against the edge of the railing, a small smile hovering around the corners of his mouth. He caught Featherstone’s scrutiny and acknowledged the other man with a brief nod, that smirk still apparent as he ambled away, every part of his body language radiating amusement.

Featherstone shook his head. He had no idea why Bond found the older agent’s newest protegee so fascinating, apart from the obvious fact of Rider's physical attractiveness. But he had kept a very close eye on the girl and to the best of his knowledge Bond hadn’t even ever spoken to Rider, let alone targeted any of his patented seduction routines in her direction. It was atypical enough behaviour for the senior agent that Featherstone had quietly enquired into the matter, to be informed, with a kind of disgruntled amusement by another double O, that Bond had put a kibosh on _any_ of them approaching young Rider in any capacity other than purely professional, with the implicit undertone that any of them that did would not enjoy the consequences if Bond found out about it. Behaviour like that was pretty much unheard of from Bond and it was unusual enough that John had mentioned it to M in one of their regular briefings on the progress of the new recruits. 

M had looked momentarily nonplussed and then her eyes had narrowed in acknowledgement, a small, smug smile hovering around her mouth for a second before she moved on, but Featherstone had the distinct impression that she was pleased, the outcome of some small convoluted scheme that he hadn't been privy to having been resolved to her satisfaction.

However, Bond’s clear intention to keep his distance didn't seem to prevent him from indulging his voyeuristic tendencies in relation to Rider’s training, and Featherstone had noticed that if Bond wasn't off on mission or otherwise engaged, at some point the younger agent would appear on the balcony above the training room and watch with what was clearly evident enjoyment as Featherstone’s protegee efficiently destroyed the ego of whoever was her training partner that day. So Bond was obviously interested in Rider, even if was from an unusually platonic point of view (for Bond). Featherstone currently wasn't quite sure what he thought of the other agent's fascination but he had hopes that he might at least be able to leverage Bond's atypical interest to Rider’s (and probably Bond’s) advantage.

By the time he made it back to his office Rider was waiting outside, still clad in the black Six sweats that she preferred but obviously freshly showered and suitably metaphorically bright eyed and bushy tailed. He waved her into his office with an wry quirk of his lips that he forbore to show as he busied himself making a mug of tea for each of them, dumping his down on the blotter and pushing Rider’s across the desk to in front of the chair she was politely standing behind at something which came very close to parade rest, her entire being radiating focused interest. Inwardly Featherstone quelled another pulse of amusement. Ian Rider had bashed some very useful traits into the girl, but her natural default to quasi-military formality was one of the more unexpected (and entertaining). From Featherstone’s ex-army perspective it certainly made her easier to deal with, but it still occasionally jarred him in unanticipated ways, and he frequently found himself treating Rider like a young squaddie, rather than the female civilian she actually was. 

Not that she really seemed to mind. In fact, pretty much everything bounced off Rider, who had a hide that sometimes seemed made of Teflon. Featherstone had a shrewd idea that underneath that armoured carapace the girl was a hell of a lot more vulnerable than she might seem, but if seeming to be invulnerable was what it took for the young agent to function effectively in the sometimes frantic environment of Six, Featherstone wasn’t going to probe too deeply. They all had their coping mechanisms, after all.

“Sit down, Rider.” She obeyed instantly, reaching out to cradle the mug of tea in her hands, her gaze fixed on him, bright and inquisitive and he bit back a smile. God, he _liked_ the girl. Far more than he had ever expected too. But she was pretty much an ideal recruit, and so it was incredibly hard for Featherstone _not_ to approve of her, although he admitted privately to himself that a less experienced and self-confident instructor might not have found her so. The trouble was that Rider was very like a thoroughbred racehorse, automatically by breeding and upbringing and circumstance so far ahead of the rest of the graduate pack that she inherently stood out, despite her attempts to blend in. She naturally pushed the envelope, and that very ability required her instructors to be operating at full capacity in order to keep up. For someone like Featherstone, with his decades of experience and his absolute certainty in his own particular skill set that was an easy bar to meet, but for any instructor that was less confident it would be considerably more of a strain. Furthermore, one of the other things Featherstone had learned from his long and varied career that a younger instructor might balk at was the necessity of sometimes setting aside his own ego in the service of his job. Accordingly the fact that Rider might occasionally ask a question that he had no clue how to answer didn't concern him. After all, he knew what he knew very well, but no man was an expert in everything and if he didn't know, he always knew how to find out or how to effectively channel Rider’s endless curiosity in the direction of the appropriate resource.

But he was only too aware that not every member of staff was capable of that level of professional detachment and he wasn't going to have Rider’s edge and enthusiasm for her job blunted at such an early stage by the casual bullying of men who were merely taking out their insecurities at being potentially shown up by a young and attractive female. So Featherstone had been exceptionally careful about the ops in the field he had assigned Rider too, not so much the nature of the operations themselves, or their locations, but rather who ran them, and so far his caution seemed to be paying dividends.

“You've been with us for seven months now.” She nodded, her expression intent. “And as I’m sure you’re aware, so far it’s going well.” She looked back at him, expression faintly questioning but at his reassuring nod she relaxed a little, a subtle singing tension that he hadn't even been aware of seeping out of her frame as she leaned back against her chair. 

“I hoped so, Sir.” She shrugged loosely. “But it’s always difficult to tell when you’re in the middle of a situation. It makes it hard to judge things objectively.”

He inclined his head in agreement. “True. But in this case, Rider, you can trust your gut.” She smiled at that and he allowed himself a small quirk of his lips in response before he shuffled the papers that had spilled out from her file across his desk. “Your training reports have been decent and your field reports have been uniformly positive.” Her smile widened slightly and he took the opportunity to look up at her sharply, holding up a quelling finger. “But that doesn't mean that you can afford to get cocky, or to slack off, _Probationary_ Agent. It just means that you are doing well _so far_.” She sobered, nodding in acknowledgement. 

“Yes Sir. I understand.”

He eye-balled her for a moment to make sure that his comment had sunk in. She met his gaze seriously, her expression calm and after a second he nodded, satisfied that she had taken his point on board. Not that he had expected anything less. If it was one thing he generally didn't have to worry about with Rider, it was ego or any other youthful tomfoolery. She was in fact, almost preternaturally controlled and her composure in the field had already been remarked upon by the rank and file as well as by her supervisors. Her cool demeanour was in marked contrast with the attitude of the others in her intake, as well as other, far more experienced agents who had never fully embraced that essential skill and in typical Six fashion had already resulted in her being inflicted with an institutional nickname.

Featherstone smiled to himself. It could have been so much worse. He himself had been labelled with the moniker of “Paddington” for years after a regrettable incident at the eponymous railway station of that name. And with the combination of Rider’s physical attractiveness, her youth and her detachment, “The Ice Princess” was a fairly understandable descriptor. 

“As I said, you've been doing well, and more to the point, you have been _consistently_ doing well for a number of months now. Enough so that I intend to recommend to M that you be removed from Probationary Agent status and promoted to full Field Agent as soon as we have ticked a few more boxes in relation to your training.” At that Rider sat up straighter, clearly surprised but from the look on her face, rather pleased.

“Really Sir? You actually think that I’m ready?” Featherstone regarded her with restrained amusement, his mouth quirked wryly. 

“I wouldn't say that you were if I didn't think that was the case, Rider.”

She sat back in her seat, looking rather embarrassed at the gentle reproof. “Sorry Sir. It’s just that I've spoken to a lot of other agents since September and I understand that normally it takes a lot longer. On that basis I wasn't expecting anything to happen until I’d been in place for at least a year.”

Featherstone inclined his head in understanding. “Fair enough. Well, it very much depends on the agent and the circumstances. For a standard graduate recruit with no paramilitary or police background the average amount of time spent at probationary agent status is usually around a year. But they wouldn’t initially go into the field once they change status on anything else other than a strictly limited basis. As you know we have some agents that never go into the field at all, for example, Q’s lot, and the majority of the research analysts. For others, even those that we hire as field operatives, well, without any relevant background it’s always a slow process to move them into operations. The stakes are too high and we can’t afford any disasters due to inexperience. So while some, like your intake colleague, Mr Singh, are too valuable not to have field certification, the majority of your intake without the appropriate background will qualify to Agent, but not field status, after a year unless there is some form of bump in the road. Field status will take a lot longer and they will have to show that they want it.”

“And the recruits with the appropriate background?”

Featherstone tilted his head to one side, amused by her interest. Rider’s curiosity about almost everything was insatiable.

“Well, understandably the process is a lot faster. Graduation to Agent status usually kicks in between six and ten months, and field status usually follows within a few months. For you, Rider, it was determined that your previous training and four years in the field were sufficient to allow you to be graduated on the paramilitary timetable.”

She nodded at that, expression solemn. “I understand. Thank you for that, Sir.”

He shook his head. “Don’t thank me. It was a unanimous decision by M and myself but wholly based on the fitness reports I’ve been receiving from your instructors and field supervisors. And they based their recommendation on your behaviour, so if you have anyone to thank, it should be yourself.”

She smiled slightly. “Yes, Sir. But thank you anyway.”

He swept away her gratitude with a wave of his hand. “No matter. You deserve it, Rider. But as I mentioned, before we make the decision final there are some holes in your training, more specifically your combat skills, which I want to address.”

She tilted her head at him, her expression curious and intent. “Sir?”

“Nothing to worry about Rider,” he hastened to reassure her. “Just some areas where I think we can see improvement before you move further into the field. I’m aware that you have obviously been accessing training from other sources,” she made to say something and he held up a hand to forestall her. “Which I have no objection to as it’s obviously having a positive effect. But the one thing I have noticed is that in relation to your combat skills you very clearly have two,” he hesitated, trying to think of the best way to articulate what he had observed. “Two _gears_ might be the best way to describe it.” She looked faintly confused, eyes narrowed as she tried to parse the meaning behind his words. 

“In unarmed practice here at Six there are very few agents at your level or even a few ranks above who are close to a match for your skill base.” She didn’t dispute this he noted, despite her natural tendencies towards self-effacement. It was hard to argue with cold hard facts after all. “As a consequence I’ve noted that you are far more _mannerly_ than might otherwise be expected in combat training.” She looked uncomfortable at that and shrugged.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone accidentally, Sir. So I have to be careful.” There it was - a flash of a slightly wry, self-mocking smile. “I’m a little bit too hair triggered to risk losing my temper. Somebody could get hurt.”

Featherstone inclined his head in understanding. “Nevertheless, it does mean that you tend to treat combat practice more like an instruction session in a dojo, with you as the instructor, than the teaching experience that the sessions are meant to be _for you_.” From the resigned expression on her face he could tell she didn't disagree. “This is useful for the agents that you work with, but not exactly the best option for your further development.” She grimaced at his observation but didn't argue. 

“But I do have my other training for that,” she pointed out. 

He nodded. “Yes, but, and correct me if I am wrong, that training is based on the use of lethal force, isn’t it?”

She blinked at him and then nodded cautiously. 

“And as I said before, I have no objections to that. You will be going into the field after all, and at some point those skills will be absolutely necessary. In fact I believe that to a certain extent you’ve already utilised them in the field to the appropriate level. Or at least according to Jamieson’s report.”

She nodded again. The operation Featherstone was alluding to had been a success but had involved a few hairy moments, one of which had involved Rider knocking an assailant unconscious with a chair, which had raised a few amused eyebrows amongst the rank and file. But what Jamieson had also noted in a private aside solely to Featherstone was that Rider’s attacker was only alive because he was lucky enough to be knocked unconscious in the first few moments of the fight. Otherwise he would be dead, because Rider had clearly been aiming to kill.

“But there will be moments when you are going to be engaged with an assailant in the field and your aim, either for the purposes of intelligence gathering or extraction, or to lull said individual into a false sense of security by necessity will need to be non-lethal incapacitation, or even allowing yourself to _lose_.” He fixed her with a look, making sure that she understood the message that he was trying to convey. “Ego is not your friend in the field, Rider. Self-confidence, yes, an understanding of what you can do, absolutely. But sometimes the mission will mean that all that goes out of the window. The mission is _everything_. And if the mission requires you to beg, to grovel, to crawl on your bloody hands and knees across broken glass to kiss the feet of some bastard you normally wouldn't allow yourself to be in the same room as, well that’s what we have to do.”

There was a silence in the room as she absorbed his words. It wasn't anything she hadn't worked out herself a long time ago, but it was the first time anyone had articulated it to her with such brutal candour. She found, rather to her surprise, that she appreciated the honesty. 

“I understand, Sir.”

He gave her a searching look. “Do you, Rider? Because there is no shame in saying that the life of a Field Operative isn’t for you. You have a lot of talent and if you choose not to go into the field I am sure Six would be willing to accommodate you in some other role.”

She clenched her hands into fists beneath the desk where he couldn’t see them; the beat of her heart suddenly thudding loudly in her ears as her pulse sped up. He couldn’t take her out of the field. He _couldn’t_. Because if there was one thing she had worked out in the last few months, it was that the field was where she belonged. 

“Yes, Sir, I do understand. And I would prefer to remain in the field if at all possible. I believe it’s where my skill set would be best utilised.” She managed to keep the tremor of anxiety out of her voice, hidden behind her rapidly developing façade of professional detachment, but Featherstone’s sharp eyes caught the rigidity in her frame and the sudden stiffness in her shoulders and drew their own conclusions.

“Hhmm. Well, we’ll proceed on that basis, at least for now. But Rider?”

She regarded him coolly, remarkably composed for someone who had been subtly gripped with what had clearly been extreme emotion just a moment or two earlier. “Sir?”

“There’s no shame in changing your mind, understand? If you ever want out of the field program you only have to ask. Agents change tracks within Six all the time and there are always other opportunities if you decide the field isn't for you.”

“Absolutely, Sir. I’ll keep that in mind.” The soft contralto voice was cool and detached but for just a moment Featherstone caught a flash of those green eyes at their most unguarded and the fire in them clearly said _like hell_.

He smiled to himself and then deliberately changed the subject.

“So, returning to your unarmed combat training. What we need to do is to find some way of challenging you sufficiently that you actually learn something, and also start to develop…hhmm...Let’s call it a _second gear_. One that you can utilise without slipping into the use of lethal force but in a far less _mannerly_ way than you currently spar with your intake. I want you sufficiently under pressure that your adrenaline starts flowing so that we can train you to be able to temper your reactions even when your field instincts kick in.” 

He smiled wryly at her dubious expression. It was clear that she wasn’t wholly convinced of his ability to produce a suitably challenging opponent from the current pool of Six agents. His smile widened. Rider’s reaction was understandable, as up to this point, as a probationary agent she had had little exposure to any senior field agents who weren’t tasked to a more supervisory role. So she possessed almost no understanding of the sheer wealth of downright lethality that was the inheritance of Six’s senior field operatives. And if she was to meet one of the double Os, she would be in for a considerable shock. While Rider was remarkably talented she was still an eighteen year old girl. And any one of the men who had survived in the field as a double O had their own proven abilities, plus nearly all of them held considerable height and weight advantages over her. That, plus the depths of their experience added up to a package that even a physical savant like Rider might have problems with at her young age. Well. They’d see.

“And how would you like me to progress that, Sir?”

He waved a hand in dismissal. “Leave it with me, Rider. I have some ideas.”

He was the recipient of an arched eyebrow at that airy assurance, but Rider made no other comment and they quickly moved on to other small assignments he wanted her to focus on, plus a quick discussion as to how Rider was progressing with her part time undergraduate degree in International Relations and Modern Languages at Oxford. But even as they were talking Featherstone was turning the possibilities over in his head and by the time they had finished their chat he had determined his next move. Now all he had to do was persuade M that it was a good idea, and that might be easier said than done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Please review!_


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Two chapters in quick succession! Hope that you enjoy. And as always, thanks to Snow Fox for beta duties!_

**_Office of M - MI6 Headquarters – 85 Albert Embankment – April 2009_ **

“Well, John. I think that’s covered everything. Unless there is something else you’d like to discuss before you update me on your young protégé’s progress?”

“No, Ma’am.” Featherstone looked down at the agenda he had painstakingly prepared earlier in the day. Apart from Rider (who amusingly was always slipped in under ‘Any Other Business’ since he had noticed that M preferred to leave his update on the younger agent’s progress to the end of their monthly catch up meetings), everything else seemed to have been dealt with. “I believe that we’ve covered all of the salient points.”

M leaned back in her chair, and regarded with him that with that steady steely blue gaze that had been known to reduce both members of her staff and world leaders to stumbling incoherence. But this time the look in her eyes was relaxed and tinged with a hint of warmth that few individuals were ever privileged to see. Featherstone counted himself lucky to be considered one of those few. Having known M for over forty years occasionally had its minor advantages, even though it meant that he was almost incapable of successfully withholding anything from her as well. Ever. Which, within an organisation like Six, could sometimes be a major disadvantage. 

“So, John. Rider if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course not, ma’am.”

He quickly updated her on the relevant points of Rider’s progress since their last trainee update meeting. While Featherstone provided M with a report on every one of the graduate trainees on a monthly basis it was silently admitted, just between the two of them, that M had a special interest in Rider’s progression. That interest was purely a personal indulgence on her part, stemming initially from a vague feeling of remorse in relation to Ian Rider’s death and his niece’s treatment at the hands of the fake Six but recently bolstered by how unique the girl herself was. If M was being honest, she had to admit that in some ways the young agent reminded M of herself, when she was just starting out, all of those years ago. Admittedly Rider was far more physically deadly than M had ever been and undoubtedly considerably more damaged, but there were enough similarities that M felt a mild kinship with the much younger woman. Not that she would ever admit to it or allow anything as nebulous as a feeling to stop her treating Rider like the resource the younger agent was, to be used ruthlessly to the betterment of the United Kingdom and to a lesser extent Six itself. But it did mean that she allowed herself the indulgence of keeping a closer eye on Rider than she did with the majority of her junior staff, who tended to remain mostly anonymous to M unless they did something to bring themselves to her attention by either distinguishing or damning themselves.

So she listened in attentive silence as Featherstone outlined Rider's steady pattern of development, flicking through the accompanying folder of Rider's mission and fitness reports as he talked. It was a short report and at the end of it M glanced up from the sheaf of documents with the faintest ghost of an approving smile hovering around the edges of her mouth.

“Excellent. So, are you still recommending promotion on the schedule we previously discussed?”

“Yes, ma'am. There are still a few minor issues I want to sort out with regard to sourcing a suitably challenging sparring partner for Rider before we finalise the step up but I have a few ideas about that as well.”

M raised a mildly amused eyebrow at that. “You do? I'm astonished.” Her tone was bone dry and Featherstone bit back a smile at the implicit irony. In over forty years of knowing him M could count on one hand the times when the ex-double O _hadn't_ had a plan, and those few incidents had generally occurred as a result of Featherstone being so badly injured in the field that he was usually unconscious. M raised that eyebrow again when he hesitated before continuing.

“Well? Out with it, man. I don't have all day.”

Featherstone inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Yes, ma'am. What I was thinking is this...”

It took him a few minutes to outline his proposal and he had to watch M’s eyebrow rise tellingly high while he did so. But he was anticipating her concerns and had rebuttals ready for each point that she brought up and after a few further moments of conversation she grudgingly nodded her assent. “If you think that it’s best, John. I’ve long since stopped querying your judgment in this area.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

She raised an admonishing finger. “Just make sure it doesn’t go completely pear shaped. I don’t want to have to deal with the ensuing disaster if it does.”

Featherstone inclined his head in acceptance of her warning. “Yes, ma’am.” 

She fixed him with one last sharp look and nodded. “Well, then. That’s it for this month. Keep me updated if anything significant changes.”

“Of course, ma’am.” He stood at her dismissal, gathered up the rest of his briefing material and with one last courteous nod started to make his way to the exit. But he was stopped with his hand on the door handle by M’s imperious tones.

“Oh, and John?”

He turned to face his boss, one eyebrow raised in polite enquiry.

“Make sure Rider starts visiting Madame Dubois as soon as possible, please. I don’t mind if the girl wants to wander the halls of Six in ripped jeans and a sweatshirt, but she’s going to have to learn how to dress and act appropriately in the field, and also that ‘acting appropriately’ doesn’t always mean shooting someone in the face.” M rolled her eyes almost imperceptibly, her tone long suffering. “God knows that we don’t need another 007. We’ve enough wrecking balls in the ranks already.”

Featherstone nodded even as he had to glance down at the carpet and away in order to smother his smile before he looked up to meet his boss’s exasperated stare. But there was a trace of humour glimmering in those blue eyes and it was that he responded to. “Yes, ma’am. I can just tell that Rider’s going to _love_ that.”

M harrumphed. “Oh yes, and obviously we run Six in line with what _Probationary Agent_ Rider wants.” Featherstone snorted before he could stop himself and for a moment matching humour twinkled in M’s steel blue gaze. 

“I’m sure she’ll be able to cope, ma’am. At least I don’t have to worry about an attack of the sulks with Rider, unlike some older agents I could name who should know better!”

M nodded, a momentary softness hovering around her mouth. “No, I wouldn’t expect you to have to. Any child of Ian Rider’s rearing would be unlikely to indulge in that kind of self pity.”

For a second the two older agents just looked at each other, the bitter-sweet memory of Ian Rider's wryly smiling face hanging between them. And then M waved a hand at him in clear dismissal, gracing him with the faintest of smiles as she did so and he slipped out of her office as she bent her head to yet another document on a desk permanently littered with them.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ++++++++++++++++++

Featherstone left Rider on the practice floor to finish off her last set and cool down under the watchful eye of one of his assistants and quietly made his way to the mezzanine level to where Bond was leaning lazily on the balcony rail, his sharp blue eyes tracking every move of Featherstone’s young ward. The younger double O glanced up as John made his way across to where the other agent was lounging but forbore to comment as the Head of Training rested his hands on the edge of the balcony beside him. For a moment they both watched the various bodies in motion on the floor below, Featherstone absently tracking his other charges as he checked their forms and made mental notes that he would add to their personnel folders later on. Eventually his gaze wandered back to the sole focus of Bond’s attention and for a moment he just watched his youngest agent, trying to see her as Bond must see her, stripped of that strange fondness that he had unwillingly developed for the bundle of iron will and contradictions that made up young Rider. 

Down on the floor Rider took up station in front of the punch bag and then released a devastating volley of kicks and punches, the bag jangling on its chains in protest. She bounced back and then started a punch combination instead, the steady metronome of her blows audible even through the noise of the rest of the agents training around her. The sleek muscles in her arms tensed and released with the explosive aggression of her motion and she shifted around the abused equipment, bare feet not making a sound on the mats, endless legs beautifully sculptured with long powerful thighs and surprisingly slender calves, and the all encompassing black of her t-shirt and waist to ankle leggings doing little to hide the maddening curves of her body. Featherstone could tell from his experience of working with her that she was fully focused, those green eyes fixed on target, that rosebud mouth pressed into a straight line, her blond mass of hair tied back sensibly, a soft flush of sweat beading across her forehead and her normally pale complexion slightly rose tinted across the cheekbones from the exercise. 

When Featherstone looked at her he saw an asset, an obligation, a young woman whom he had a responsibility to guide and train; to make her the best she could possibly be before M unleashed her at the UK's enemies, like a wolf off the chain. But he also saw a matter of professional pride, a passing of a torch to someone he thought might be worthy of it and the opportunity to pay honour to the shade of Ian Rider, with whom he had shared the occasional drink when the other double O had been active at Six. She was clay that was still malleable, able to be shaped by the efforts of both him and herself into the strongest version of herself that she could possibly be and he was honoured to be part of the process. Already he could see the difference in her from the raw recruit who had been placed in his care only a few months ago and he could tell that if she kept going at her current rate, in a few years she would be spectacular. Twice as deadly as she was now and lethally effective to boot and Featherstone was determined to make sure that her current promise would blossom to fruition. And for that to happen, he needed Bond’s help. But that meant he had to deduce what would tip the younger double O’s interest in Featherstone’s protégée from abstract interest to actual (platonic) involvement.

He glanced over at his companion who was still watching Rider silently, his body language deceptively relaxed, belaying the lazy intensity with which he was tracking the young woman’s every movement. Featherstone still couldn’t quite work out the reason for Bond’s continued interest. There was the normal heterosexual male appreciation for a beautiful young woman of course, but there was something more than that. If it had just been sex Bond would have either tried to seduce Featherstone’s charge before now, or, if he intended to maintain his hands off posture despite his interest, would have long ceased his habitual monitoring once he had established that the rest of the senior agents at Six were maintaining his self imposed party line. But instead he seemed unwittingly both fascinated and abstractly amused by Rider, especially by the way the younger woman cut through the other junior agents she trained with like wheat through chaff. There was even a hint in his supervision of a detached competitiveness, as though he was constantly weighing Rider up against some abstract standard and not finding her wanting. _That_ didn’t surprise Featherstone in the slightest. Every double O was a type A competitive bastard after all, it was as much a characteristic of the breed as the ability to analytically pull a trigger and end a life without losing much sleep. But Featherstone had hope that he might be able harness that aspect of Bond’s personality to both Rider and Bond’s mutual advantage. 

He glanced aside at his silent fellow watcher who was still fixated on John’s young charge. Down on the floor Rider finished her last set with an upper cut round house combination that made the bag rattle on its chains and then topped that with an unauthorised spin kick that threw the bag against its bonds with a force that strained the links for a moment. She swept back to standing position and regarded the bag with a faint air of satisfaction, a few beads of sweat trickling down her forehead, the hair at her temples curling slightly from the heat of her exertion. She wiped her forehead with her forearm and frowned and then pulled up the bottom of her sweat soaked t-shirt to mop her face, briefly treating the various watchers to a glimpse of a toned abdomen, before she dropped the shirt again. Then she grabbed her water bottle and moved over to report to her instructor, unstrapping her hands as she did so, but not before gracing the balcony and the watching double Os with a brief neutral glance from narrowed green eyes before she padded away. Bond kept his gaze on her back as she stalked to the changing rooms and then glanced at Featherstone, one eyebrow raised in enquiry.

“Featherstone.”

“Bond.”

There was a level of mutual respect in the nods the two men exchanged. Featherstone was a quiet legend at Six, one of the very few double Os who had managed to survive to retire from the field due to age rather than injury and who had then gone on to be both highly successful and extremely valuable to Six in another role. He had trained Bond years ago; although with his SBS experience the younger agent had needed far less of Featherstone’s time than other recruits without any paramilitary background. It was due to the older man’s overhaul of the recruitment and training process at Six that casualties amongst the SISs agents had been substantially reduced. Featherstone was a field agent through and through and his experiences infused every procedure he had implemented, to Bond’s and the other field agents’ collective appreciation. 

In return, Featherstone kept track of all of the active field agents and maintained a particular interest in the few senior agents who had reached the double O rank. Unknown to Bond, he had been one of those who had advised M that Bond was ready for double O status, a fact that she sometimes berated him with when Bond had done something particularly disruptive or destructive. But both M and John knew that they’d been right to promote Bond when they had. He was, as M frequently put it “a blunt instrument” and a “wrecking ball”, but he was also supremely effective and his loyalty to the UK and to M herself made him an incredibly valuable asset to have in the field. He was also completely ruthless when necessary and, once he was on a mission, would only be derailed by serious injury or death (although as Bond had already been prematurely declared dead twice since he’d been granted double O status even death was starting to be considered conditional as a way of stopping him). Even amongst the ranks of the double Os Bond was exceptional, and he was shaping up to have a career as impressive as Featherstone’s, if he survived that long.

Bond went straight to the point. He didn’t believe in wasting time with pointless chitchat.

“She’s improving.”

Rider’s mentor nodded and a brief flash of pride flickered across the older man’s face. “Yes, she is. I’ve actually recommended to M that she be advanced to full agent status at some point in the next few months.” 

Bond raised an eyebrow. “That's fast. How long has it been, six months?”

Featherstone shrugged. “About that. But she's ready and she's wasted behind a desk. If anyone was made for the field, it's Rider.”

Bond pressed his lips together in a thin line as he considered that. “She's still very young.”

“You know as well as I do, Bond, that age matters less in the field than attitude and ability. And Rider's got both, in spades. She'll do well.”

Bond nodded his acceptance. If anyone would be able to analytically judge the issue, it would be Featherstone. And if the older man said that Rider was ready for full agent status it would be a far more foolhardy individual than Bond who would second-guess him. 

“I suppose congratulations are in order, then.” He turned and leaned his back against the balcony edge, stretching his legs in front of him, ankles crossed, a picture of leonine relaxation, but with that subtle air of a coiled predator that none of the double Os ever really lost. “But you didn't come up here just to tell me that. What do you want, Featherstone?”

Featherstone leaned one arm on the balcony and partly turned to face the younger agent. He hesitated before he spoke, choosing his words carefully. 

“I'm graduating Rider, but there are still some things she needs to work on and I was hoping I might be able to interest you in assisting me with them.” He could see the instant refusal rising in Bond's expression and held up a hand to gainsay any incipient protest. “I already checked this with M, and she's given her approval.”

Bond paused at that and then nodded for Featherstone to continue. 

“As you have probably noticed, Rider has some issues with hand to hand.”

Bond chuckled dryly. “If you mean by 'some issues' that she rips through the junior ranks at Six without raising an eyebrow, all the time looking as if she's instructing a class at a dojo? Then yes, I had noticed.”

Featherstone smiled, a little wryly. “I thought you might have detected that. And while Rider being so far ahead of the bell curve in this area is all very well, and quite useful for the rest of her intake as she's actually a rather good instructor for someone of her age, it doesn't exactly help the girl with her own development. There's no challenge.”

“But she does fine in the field.”

It was a statement from Bond, rather than a question and John took a moment to consider how the hell Bond was keeping track on how Rider performed in the field as he bit down on a pang of exasperation. As M frequently groused, how Bond knew the things that he knew was a bit of an enduring mystery at Six and part of the ever expanding mythos that surrounded the younger double O.

“I believe that she’s been accessing some specialised training, extra-curricular of Six. And whoever is instructing her has a lot of experience. He’s probably ex-special forces or paramilitary.”

Bond’s eyebrow rose at that, reluctantly impressed by Rider’s initiative. “Isn’t that enough? As long as she can defend herself adequately?”

Featherstone shook his head. “No. The issue here is not so much Rider’s skill level as her reactions. Just now she has essentially two gears when she fights. One is when she’s sparring with her intake here at Six. That’s Rider as instructor, very controlled, very calm and only using moves that won’t cause permanent damage should one of her opponents fuck up.”

Bond nodded in acknowledgement. He’d watched enough of Rider’s training sessions to recognise the scenario Featherstone described. 

“The other gear is the one that she accesses in the field. And that is no-holds barred lethality. If she fights, she fights not to win, but to kill. And the habit is engrained enough that I’m pretty sure it’s almost sub-conscious. The minute someone attacks her and her adrenalin spikes she’s in third gear. And third gear for Rider is _deadly_. And I mean that in a completely literal way. The only way an opponent that takes on Rider in that state will survive is if he or she incapacitates Rider completely, or circumstances interfere to such an extent that the fight is interrupted before its conclusion.”

Bond cocked his head as he considered that for a moment before he shrugged. “If it keeps her alive, should you be concerned? She may be trigger happy but as long as it’s directed at the right targets is it really an issue?”

Featherstone shook his head abruptly, his lips pressed together in a thin line. “It’s not ideal. She needs to develop some form of middle ground, otherwise she’s going to be too reactive to use effectively in the field. We don’t need soldiers, Bond; we have the SAS on call if we need that. What we need are _agents_ , effective intelligence gatherers. And for that we need individuals who know how to judge a situation, when to retreat and when to fight, and when leaving an opponent alive would be the most advantageous thing to do. Just now Rider doesn’t have that discernment. The minute she’s at risk she automatically accelerates up to Defcon One without considering whether a more proportional approach would be more appropriate. And the issue is that I think that she doesn’t even really mean to. She just reacts to stimulus. If someone tries to hurt her all of her normal objectivity goes out the window and she just hits back on a purely instinctual level, no higher brain function required.” He sighed and ran a hand over the short silver crop of his hair. “It’s frustrating, because it’s a block I haven’t been able to get past in training, because the circumstances that trigger that reaction in Rider only occur in the field.”

“Or when she gets hurt,” noted Bond.

Featherstone nodded. “Exactly. But I think the hurt is almost incidental. It’s the _threat_ , which matters. Rider needs to feel threatened on a sub-conscious level for that shift in her reactions to happen as it does in the field.” He smiled wryly at his companion. “And as you may have noticed, she doesn’t exactly have any opponents within the level that she is working at inside Six that can challenge her enough so that we can access that reaction and work on…” he hesitated, trying to think of the right word to encapsulate the change in the level of Rider’s responses that he wanted to effect. “Developing a second gear for the girl. We need her to be able to react proportionally to threats, to be able to still analytically consider her response and temper how much injury she inflicts, or receives, if it comes to that, when she’s in the field and her adrenaline is pumping. I need to get her into the state where her body is telling her to kill, keep her there and then help her develop a different non-lethal physical vocabulary of responses to those situations. And for that to happen I need her challenged.”

Bond raised a sceptical eyebrow. “And for that, you need me?”

Featherstone nodded. “You or someone with your level of skill and experience, and more to the point, your control. You and I both know that even within Six there aren’t many people who fit those qualifications.”

“What about 009? Will may be more appropriate.”

Featherstone shook his head. “He’s not actually amazingly good at hand to hand. He can hold his own of course, but guns are much more Taylor’s thing than unarmed. And yes, he might be able to help for a session or two, but Rider is a remarkably quick learner and he would rapidly find himself outclassed.” 

Bond nodded to acknowledge the point. “006?”

Featherstone frowned. “Too much ego. He’ll either completely demoralise the girl by destroying her or storm out in a huff if she gets the better of him.”

Bond snorted quietly in amusement at that oh so accurate description of his friend and fellow double O. Trevelyan did have a tendency to over react at the best of times and he was notoriously hot blooded.

“I’ve gone through the entire roster of active duty senior field agents and the double Os and out of all of them you are the closest fit to the skill set I require. Plus, I know you are interested in the girl’s progression. I’ve seen you watching her spar too often for you to deny it.”

Bond was silent for a moment, looking out over the balcony at the now empty expanse of the training floor, clearly thinking it over. Featherstone waited patiently. Bond was a cold bastard, even for a double O. He had always been cool and detached, but after that debacle with Vesper Lynd a few years ago that coolness had solidified into ice and he was now almost impossible to read, even for those few individuals he acknowledged as friends. 

The younger double O glanced back, one corner of his mouth quirked in a wry smile. “So what you are essentially asking me to do is beat up your teenage prodigy until she gains the control to stop trying to kill me?”

Featherstone bit back a smile of his own, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “Well. When you put it like that….” 

Bond chuckled quietly and returned his attention to the empty gym floor, turning over Featherstone’s proposal in his mind as he examined it from various angles. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to get any more involved with Rider than he already had; despite the entertainment value he had gleaned from watching her systematically demolish her opponents. But at the same time he could appreciate Featherstone’s position and the perfection of the older man’s logic. And, false modesty aside, he knew from his own observations of Rider’s training and the reports of the various field reports he had illicitly accessed that he was one of the few at Six who might be able to consistently challenge the girl in the area of unarmed combat.

For a moment a vision of her sharply cheek-boned face floated in his mind’s eye. He was aware of Rider’s nascent reputation within Six for being notoriously cool under pressure and generally reserved and had been amused by her internal appellation. “The Ice Princess” was, for once, surprisingly apt as a Six nickname. But Bond also remembered the flash of heat he’d seen in her gaze the first time they had laid eyes on each other, the barely leashed rage in that green edged stare and somewhat to his surprise, he realised that he wanted to see that fire again. He wanted to see if he could get under Rider’s skin in the way that she had inadvertently slipped under his. And he was a man who preferred to indulge his wants. Mind made up, he turned his attention back to where Featherstone was waiting patiently.

“I’ll do it.”

Featherstone smiled slowly. “Thank you Bond. I genuinely appreciate the assist.”

Bond smirked in return. “Do you think Rider will?”

The older man chuckled dryly. “No, no,” he agreed judiciously. “Probably not. Especially not at first. But she’ll understand the necessity and she’ll keep her mouth shut even if she has any issue with it. She’s not one to complain.”

Bond nodded, his mind flashing back to that file folder with the list of missions and the accompanying recitation of the injuries an adolescent Rider had suffered while she fulfilled them. “No,” he concurred quietly. “I imagine she’s not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Please review! Would love to know what my readers think._


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _In which our scruffy heroine realises that manners may make the man (or woman) but clothes are not something an active agent can avoid either..._

_**MI6 Headquarters – 85 Albert Embankment – April 2009** _

 

Rider padded along yet another of Six’s endless corridors, checking the alphanumeric designations against the one on the text that Featherstone had sent her earlier that morning. She normally had field training at this time (currently the syllabus had her working her way through the intricacies of defusing explosive devices which was actually really interesting), but the message from her trainer had disrupted that, leading her to this distracted reconnaissance through the labyrinth that was Six’s London headquarters. She glanced down at the room number again, _(L3-589)_ reading it with the ease of months of familiarity. Level 3 – sector 5, room 89. 

She turned a corner and there it was, just another nondescript door in a sea of off white painted wall. She might appreciate the inherent security in having no identifying marks on the acres of Six’s corridors from a professional point of view, but sometimes from a human angle it did get terribly bland. But she was procrastinating. Time to find out whatever it was that was so important that Featherstone had to de-rail her set-in-stone training schedule to accommodate it. 

The door was firmly closed, no sign of any entrance buzzer or other form of intercom so Rider only hesitated for a second before knocking firmly, the solid rap of her knuckles against the painted wood echoing dully down the corridor.

There was a moment’s silence from inside the room, long enough that Alex shifted from foot to foot, unsure whether to knock again and then a soft female voice called out from the interior. The accent was received English pronunciation edged with something musical and foreign in the way of someone born or bought up abroad with English not as their first language but who had lived in Britain for a very long time. 

“ _Enter_. It’s unlocked.”

Alex raised an eyebrow at this casual disregard for the habitual paranoia most Six employees maintained as unconsciously as breathing, but obeyed nonetheless.

The room inside was considerably bigger than the standard single desk office size that she had expected. In fact it was a suite of rooms rather than just one, a series of arches leading to other spaces visible to the right through an open door in the wall. And if the individual rooms that she couldn’t quite see were the same size as the one she was standing in, each would be of more than a decent size as well, although from the sheer amount of stuff clogging the walls and cupboards of the room Rider was standing in, the only way to accurately estimate the size of the space would be to look upwards at the ceiling and measure the dimensions that way. 

There were cupboards and shelves everywhere, books piled up haphazardly against each other, what looked like clothes peeking out of drawers, and rather incongruously, a small Hollywood vanity with a mirror surrounded by bulbs (currently unlit) the top of the table covered with a sprawl of mysterious lotions, tubes and tubes, with a bundle of various make-up brushes casually sticking out of the top of an old Toby mug stuck in one corner. The whole space looked like nothing more than the backstage of a fairly busy small regional theatre or how Rider vaguely remembered the Drama department production office at her secondary school used to look like. Not that she’d spent much time there, but the casual chaos gave her a momentary pang of nostalgia for when her life was considerably simpler.

As usual Alex took in all of this background information in a few seconds and then her focus settled unerringly on the one human who was currently visible in the room. She was sitting behind a desk crammed rather randomly at the back of the office, a slender, older woman with immaculately bobbed silver hair, the kind of elegant face that had once been heartbreakingly beautiful in youth but that retained a striking vitality in age and carefully chosen and perfectly tailored clothes in a subtle melange of navy and white. She was, in a word, _chic_ and gave off that ineffable air that said “ _French_ ” and possibly “ _Parisian_ ” to those who had the discernment to notice it. 

And as usual, whenever Alex was confronted with this kind of level of feminine grooming, she immediately felt gawky and scruffy and uneasy in her skin in a way that no other circumstance could induce. There was just something about immaculately presented women that made her feel innately inadequate and it was one of the few circumstances when she often silently wished that she had been close to a female relative or sibling growing up, or been the kind of girl who had cultivated girl friends who were interested in fashion and make-up. But most of the friends that she had made in her nomadic early childhood, being moved across Europe at regular intervals by Ian, had been boys as she had been a rough and tumble little girl, more interested in running about than in dolls. And the few female friends that she had made in school once they had settled permanently back in London had either been distanced from her by her transfer to a different secondary school than them, or had drifted away from her once Ian had died, and her world had narrowed by necessity down to the basics of school-work and survival. Friendships needed nurturing, just like any other relationship, especially those of teenage girls and Alex had simply not been able to spare the time. But it had left her at sea in relation to those things that girls with more regular feminine influences just picked up, almost by osmosis, and her one female role model, Jack Starbright had been almost as big a scruff before she had died as Alex was herself, so had been no help at all.

She had been worried (a minor worry in the grand scheme of things, but one that still niggled her unexpectedly, like a hair caught under a bra strap) that when she joined Six that she would be expected to show up to work every day perfectly groomed. But she had quickly realised that no one really cared what she wore, especially as she was both still in training and destined for field operations. So she had quickly accumulated a wardrobe of plain black - black t-shirts, jumpers and jeans, or when she was exercising, Six-branded work out gear, also black - with a sigh of relief. Because, being honest, she didn’t actually want to “smarten herself up” at all. In fact if she could stay as anonymous as possible she would be a happy woman. Because all of that, beauty and fashion and style in general, was about projecting an image, making yourself noticeable, especially to the opposite sex. And that was the absolute last thing Alex wanted to do. Just the thought of that, of being sexually attractive to men, froze her down deep in her core, where something raw and damaged still stabbed her with a knife of ice every time she even thought about sex or anything associated with it. And like a beaten dog or the damaged child she had been (and perhaps still was), she had learned to shy away, over and over again, from even the thought of sex or physical intimacy until the wall of aversion in her mind was strong enough that she could function on a day to day basis without the risk of the memories of her own trauma pulling her feet out from under her.

But with the cold hard logic that was becoming increasingly prevalent in the other part of her psyche, the part that answered to “Rider”, rather than “Alex”, the part that tracked the statistics of her own survival every time she walked into a room, and saw a weapon or a threat everywhere she looked, Rider knew that while _Alex_ could hide away from the multiplicity of ways that her body could be used as a weapon, _Rider_ couldn’t afford that ignorance. And that usage might at some point require her to use every weapon in her arsenal, even if her final weapon was the lure of sex.

All of this went through Rider’s mind in a heartbeat as she hovered before the desk while its occupant returned the cool and analytical scrutiny that Rider had subjected her to. But the older woman’s examination took considerably longer and was far more physically focused than Rider’s brief perusal. In fact it was thorough enough that Alex had to bite down on the urge to shift restlessly from foot to foot, feeling not unlike a thoroughbred in the auction ring with a potential buyer considering her for purchase. 

Finally the other woman nodded, seemingly in satisfaction and indicated the empty chair on the other side of the desk with a queenly inclination of her head.

“Sit.”

Alex perched tentatively on the edge of the chair, something about the petite figure sitting across from her preventing her from even considering demonstrating anything other than perfect posture. From the faintly approving look the slender Frenchwoman bestowed upon her before she glanced down at the personnel file on her desk Alex felt that she may have made the right choice.

“So, Probationary Agent Rider, is it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Alex still had no idea who this woman was, but she gave off an air of casual confidence that reminded Alex considerably of M, so it seemed sensible to err on the side of caution. 

However, some of the apprehension that she was feeling must have slipped past the cool mask she normally donned in unfamiliar situations, for the older woman suddenly smiled, the skin crinkling around still bright blue eyes. “I am sure that you may be slightly confused as to why you are here, Agent Rider, but all will become clear very soon.”

Unconvinced, but willing to humour her, Rider merely nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

At that oh-so-neutral and polite response the other woman chuckled, a surprisingly dirty laugh for such an elegant figure and shook her silver head.

“Ah, I see Featherstone was not exaggerating about you!” She forbore to explain that cryptic comment but simply leaned forward to offer a hand, which Alex took and shook gingerly, still a little discombobulated. 

“I am Madam Dubois, Agent Rider. And I have been in charge of certain, less obvious aspects of Six’s training regime for many years now.”

Of course, that told Alex absolutely nothing useful, so she waited and hoped that Dubois would provide some further clarification. Thankfully, she didn’t have to wait for long.

“I deal with the softer side of our business. There are no bombs to defuse here, or guns to fire, which I am sure that you are quite disappointed about if you are like the majority of trainees who have passed through my hands.” Alex tried to keep her face straight at that but Dubois caught the slightest twitch of her lips and laughed again. “No, no, do not think that you are unique! All of you would-be field agents; you are the same in this. I think it is something to do with the paramilitary mind-set that you think that to do a thing properly you must blow something up.” She shook her head ruefully. “Never mind. Thankfully our Lady M has always had the sense to hold a different view. And so you have me.” She sobered and leant back in her chair as she looked Rider over analytically again. 

“What is the purpose of MI6, Probationary Agent Rider?”

“ _To give the UK advantage, acting secretly overseas to make the country safer and more prosperous_ ,” Alex recited obediently, only too familiar with Six’s mission statement after all of her months of training.

“Yes. And to do that we need intelligence. Boots on the ground may be necessary later, or simply a gun in a discreet place, but all of that is based on intelligence. Reliable, proven intelligence. And, despite all that the Americans may want to tell you, or our colleagues at GCHQ may infer, the most valuable intelligence is consistently is sourced from flesh and blood humans. Not machines or UAVs sweeping high in the sky, although such things may have their uses. A satellite may tell you that a truck is moving across a desert, but only a human source can tell you what exactly is in the truck and why that vehicle is important. Do you understand?”

Rider nodded silently. This was all very obvious to her, the basics of what she had learned at both of the reiterations of Six that she had served but Madame Dubois was clearly aiming at a conclusion and she was willing to wait and see where the older woman led.

“Good. Human intelligence is exactly that – provided by humans. And while a little is freely offered, either for greed or for patriotism or to undermine us with false information, the majority of the information we rely on must be extracted.” She shrugged in a quintessentially Gallic gesture. “Information extracted through ‘enhanced interrogation’, as our US cousins refer to it, is seldom that reliable in comparison with what is provided as a result of persuasion, or infiltration or simply, pure seduction.” For a moment there was silence as the women regarded each other across the gulf of age and experience separating them and it was a toss up as to whose eyes were the most cynical. 

“Every source requires a different approach and every agent must be prepared to adapt themselves to that subject’s need in order to get close enough to build the rapport required to persuade their target to give up all that they know. Admittedly, some agents tend to be more direct about it than others and there is a reason that M refers to a number of your senior compatriots as “wrecking balls” in the field, but for the majority of Six agents, the nature of extracting information from a subject who is not imprisoned tends to be a slow and subtle process or an overwhelming seduction.”

She paused again, scanning Rider slowly from the tip of her head to as far down as she could see considering the younger woman’s lower body was blocked from view by the desk. It was a cool and analytical assessment that seemed to pierce all the way through the other agent’s clothes and Rider had to sit down hard on the urge to squirm under the scrutiny. She bit down on the inside of her lip, determined not to let the other woman realise how discomforted she was by Dubois’ visual stripping. So the face that looked back at the Frenchwoman was cool and unaffected and after a moment Dubois stopped her blatant assessment and looked directly at her again as a small smile hovered over those perfectly painted lips.

“You are a very beautiful young woman, Ms Rider.” It was said as a simple statement of fact, rather than as a compliment and Alex simply regarded her silently, determined not to let slip how uncomfortable such a blatant reference to her physical attributes made her feel.

“Yes, very beautiful. In fact you are one of the most attractive female trainees to have come through my door in the last decade.” Those faded blue eyes regarded Rider again, coolly penetrating. “And I say this not to flatter you, but simply as a statement of fact.” There was a pause again as the two women regarded each other.

“But I can already tell that this is not what you want to hear. From the way you dress you would rather blend into the background than rely on the advantages that youth and your beauty will grant you.” She shrugged again, carelessly. “No matter, if it was just your personal life. I’m sure that you have your reasons and that they are valid. But unfortunately for you, it is _not_ just your personal life.” She glanced down at the file folder open on her desk.

“Featherstone tells me that you are an extremely athletic young woman. And one who is genuinely gifted in the use of firearms. A superlative shot, he said. And excellent at unarmed combat. Someone who knows how to use every weapon to her best advantage.” She scanned the younger woman across from her critically. “And I can tell you that that he was wrong when he said that. For you don’t use every advantage that you have, do you? Because if you did, we would not be having this conversation.”

Alex maintained her silence. She wasn’t prepared to waste her energy on a pointless defence of her position. If Dubois had read her file and had any imagination she must have an inkling of why Alex was reluctant to leverage her body in her work. If not, well, Alex wasn’t about to explain it to her.

Dubois leaned forward, her expression intent as she fixed her attention on the young agent sitting opposite her. “Your beauty, Agent Rider is a weapon as much as the gun in your hand. And like a gun it can be used by you, or used against you. It can be the lever that causes a subject to disclose everything, the honey in the trap that you set, or it can be the thing that makes you stand out like a beacon when you most desperately need to be anonymous.” She smiled, a little cynically. “Beauty _attracts_ , Agent Rider, for good or ill. It causes intelligent men to make stupid decisions, no matter what their age, and it affects women as well, to a lesser extent. People trust beautiful men and women more, or dismiss them completely because they assume that there is no way that there can be a brain hiding inside such a gorgeous exterior. It is an _advantage_. And it is one that you are going to have to learn to use to your benefit because otherwise it will be used against you. Do you understand?”

Alex swallowed down her instant, childish refutation. The only crime Dubois had committed was to articulate clearly a realisation that Alex had been slowly coming to by herself. Despite the fact that the very idea of using her body in such a way, to seduce and to bait, made her feel sick to her stomach. But that other part of her, that cool calculating part that was _Rider_ , rather than Alex, knew that Dubois was right.

“Yes, Madam.”

Dubois leaned back in her chair again. “Good. But do not worry, Alex Rider. This will not be as bad as you may fear. I will teach you how to create a persona, how to enhance what you have, or disguise it completely. I will teach you how to act, how to use clothes and costume and make-up, voice and gesture to stand out from a crowd or disappear into it. You will be no wrecking ball, Agent Rider. No, we will make of you a stiletto, a knife in the dark. And if you do not wish to use any of it when you are not in the field?” She shrugged in her Gallic fashion. “No matter. That is not Six’s concern. What Alex Rider chooses to do when she is not Agent Rider, as long as it does not compromise her role at Six, Six does not care about. So, what do you say, Agent Rider? Is it _bien_?”

Despite everything, Alex smiled at that, just a little. When Dubois put it that way it sounded like it might even be fun. After all she had always liked drama at school and what was this but the crafting of the role of a lifetime? And if not, she would suck it up and deal. After all, that was what she always did in the field and the circumstances were usually considerably more heightened.

“ _Oui, madam_ ,” she confirmed quietly. “ _C’est tres bien_.”

Dubois smiled triumphantly at her. “Excellent. Well, in that case, Agent Rider, let’s get started.”

Alex inclined her head in acquiescence. “Lets.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Please review!_


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Finally! That's all I am saying.....I would love to hear what you all think._

_**MI6 Headquarters – 85 Albert Embankment – April 2009** _

Bond pushed aside the door into the gym where Featherstone was already waiting. The older man had chosen the location for this staged altercation carefully, booking one of the smaller, private rooms, with no balcony or any viewing window and with a door that could be latched from the inside to ensure the privacy of the occupants. Of course, like most of the public/private spaces in Six it was thoroughly covered by electronic surveillance but John had pulled a few strings to make sure that the footage of what was about to happen would be off limits to 99% of Six’s people. Q had promised him that it would be stored within Training’s own dedicated drive and password protected at Level 7 so that it would only be available to the most senior of Six’s staff. At least then if any of Q’s minions decided to try and hack it and were caught, Featherstone would have the authority to descend on them like the wrath of the Almighty.

The precautions might have seemed like over-kill but what Featherstone was trying here was extreme, and unusual enough that the knowledge of it would raise more than a few eyebrows amongst the rank and file, and at least in the first instance John expected that the films of these encounters would make fairly unpleasant viewing. And the last thing that Rider’s trainer wanted was for his protégée to have to live with even more notoriety within Six than she currently had. She had to deal with enough attention as it was, the combination of her abilities, her beauty and her extreme youth making her both a target and a focus of scurrilous rumour and backhanded gossip. He wasn’t about to add any more fuel to _that_ fire.

Bond padded over to him, dressed down for once in Six sweats and a t-shirt, the heather grey material pulling tight over corded muscle, the scars that spoke of his long history of reckless adventuring peaking out from underneath the sleeves that bisected his biceps. He looked like what he was, a very dangerous man, and Featherstone hoped that Rider had the perception to recognise exactly how deadly the younger double O was. Otherwise this arrangement was liable to be even more painful for her than Featherstone expected. 

The other agent’s face was impassive as always but he tendered the merest hint of a smirk in greeting and Featherstone inclined his head in return.

“Bond.”

“Featherstone.” He glanced around. “So where is your protégée? She doesn’t seem like the type to keep you waiting.”

“She’s not,” Featherstone acknowledged. “I asked you to come a little early. I wanted to discuss a few safety guidelines with you first.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening,” he allowed. “But don’t be too restrictive, Featherstone.” He smiled, a little cruelly. “I’m rather looking forward to finding out exactly what Rider is capable of myself.”

 

*************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Alex checked her watch again as she pushed open the door to the gym Featherstone had directed her to. She wasn’t late, not quite, but she had cut it closer than she preferred. However, she’d only received the text changing her schedule and requesting that she report to a new location dressed for physical activity thirty minutes ago and she had needed to make a pit stop at the women’s changing rooms over by the main gym to slip into her workout gear and this smaller practice room was completely in the opposite direction from the main training wing. But she’d managed to make it in time nonetheless and she sighed in relief as she silently slipped through the entranceway and then paused as she caught sight of the two men inside the room, who were conversing quietly as they waited for her.

Featherstone was his normal taciturn self, his craggy face cut with the lines of age and experience, betraying nothing of his feelings to the casual bystander. But Alex had been forced in to close enough contact with him over the last few months to have become almost an expert at reading his micro-expressions and both the cant of his eyebrows and the slightest tension in his jaw telegraphed his combination of anticipation and mild anxiety to her as clearly as though he had hired a sky-writer to broadcast his emotions across the horizon. 

But it was the other figure that held most of her attention. When she had first entered the room there had been a brief moment of non-recognition as the man’s profile had been obscured as he turned to make some comment to Featherstone. But then something alerted him to her entrance and his silver blonde head snapped around to meet her inquisitive stare, icy blue eyes narrowed. 

Her eyes narrowed in return as she realised the other man was the same arrogant agent who had so shamelessly subjected her to his detailed perusal on her very first morning at Six, the same agent who she frequently clocked watching her workouts, his scrutiny less overtly sexual than their initial encounter but unwelcome nonetheless. For once he was stripped down out of the tailored suits that seemed to be his default attire. Instead black sweats hung loosely from a narrow waist and the plain grey t-shirt he was wearing hugged his body and emphasised the width of his biceps, the breadth of his shoulders and the sinewy strength of his forearms and hands. But Alex was less influenced by aesthetics and more by the predatory promise implicit in the way he moved, all of one piece like a tiger or some other giant feline and in the scars that she could see peaking their way out of the edges of his clothes. All of it screamed out _danger_ to her field honed instincts and accordingly she maintained her hover near the entrance to the gym rather than crossing to join her trainer, reluctant to move within the other agent’s physical sphere of influence. But the choice of whether to go or to stay (not really her choice at all but she did like to maintain the illusion) was soon wrenched from her when Featherstone also registered her arrival and beckoned her over to where they were standing with an impatient wave of his hand.

“Rider.”

“Sir,” she acknowledged with a nod as she moved closer and kept a wary eye on the other agent as she did so, uncomfortable with being forced into such close proximity with a strange agent whose capabilities she hadn’t comprehensively assessed and yet who so clearly registered to her instincts as a pertinent threat. 

Featherstone’s clear blue gaze raked over her appraisingly, and his mouth may have twitched infinitesimally with amusement at her obvious (to him at least) discomfiture. But he didn’t call her on it and simply inclined his head to where the other agent was standing. The younger man was rocking slightly on his heels, hands stuffed into his pockets as he stared down his nose at Alex, the slightest of smirks gracing a face that the part of Alex that was Rider judged dispassionately as quite attractive in a rough hewn, very masculine way. But to Alex that didn’t even really register except as an abstract. Both aspects of her personality were too busy analysing the senior agent for strengths and weaknesses and at the same time trying to tramp down aggressively on the inward swell of her temper that instantly just found that shit-eating grin _bloody annoying_.

The clearing of Featherstone’s throat wrenched Rider’s attention away from the stare off that was rapidly developing between her and the senior agent and she blinked, narrowing her eyes at the other agent one more time and heroically ignoring the way that the other man’s smirk had only widened during their small ocular battle before she turned back to her trainer, politely waiting for him to provide an explanation for the unwelcome presence of her blond irritant.

“Rider, this is 007. He has kindly volunteered to work with us to assist you in creating that _second gear_ we discussed a few days ago. 007 has extensive experience in operating solo in the field and is also very familiar with the level of non-lethal response that I am keen for you to develop.” Featherstone smiled a little, wryly. “He’s also one of the few at Six that I am sure is capable of keeping up with your skill level at unarmed combat.”

Rider regarded the newly named ‘007’ with renewed wariness, all of those signals that her gut had been frantically sending to her brain codifying into an intellectual awareness that 007 was probably at least as dangerous as he looked. And that was pretty bloody dangerous. 

“Sir,” she acknowledged, still keeping an eagle eye on their third party who, judging by the sardonic twist to his lips, was finding her understandable caution more than slightly amusing. “Can I ask how this… _gentleman_ …. (there was a depth of scepticism in her tone at the nomenclature she granted the other agent and 007’s grin only widened) will be assisting us?”

Now it was Featherstone’s turn to look amused and Alex bit back valiantly on the urge to subject her teacher to the same unimpressed stare she had turned on the newly named 007. It was only her latent respect for both the man and his position that prevented her from doing so but she couldn’t help letting the mildest of glares escape, which Featherstone graciously ignored.

“Of course. As we have previously discussed, Rider, the issue is that you have no experience of being forced to develop a non-terminal but still effective alternative to the intrinsically lethal methods you currently automatically default to in the field. Also, unless you are under threat you do not react sufficiently instinctively to allow any such non-homicidal methods to be programmed into your muscle memory to the extent that you would be able to viably access and utilise them in the field when under attack.”

Featherstone paused and Rider nodded her agreement.

“At my suggestion 007 is going to spar with you, utilising the non-terminal methods that I wish you to develop and I want you to defend and counter his attacks, again utilising _non-lethal methods_ only. That will mean that you will have to adapt your normal repertoire to meet his attack but even if you feel that you are losing _I do not want you to attack with final intent_. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Normally I wouldn’t utilise this form of forced learning but you _are_ a rather unusual case and I believe that it may be warranted. To be honest, Rider, with the skill set that you have and the speed with which you can embed technique into your physical memory, this is probably the most effective and the most efficient way for you to cultivate the necessary level of self-control under the threat of physical force.”

“Yes, Sir. And how long do you expect this process to take?” Featherstone frowned as he contemplated his trainee’s question, some part of him still amused by how determinedly she was ignoring the hulking presence of Bond standing beside them, watching their interaction with that air of detached analytical humour that was so clearly an intrinsic part of his personality. The younger agent wasn’t exactly an easy individual to brush aside but Rider was doing her best. It was atypical behaviour for the young woman as she was usually conscientiously polite, albeit reserved to her colleagues but it was clear that there was something about Bond that simply riled her. Featherstone could almost see the bristling irritation, like a cat whose fur had been brushed backwards and Bond wasn’t helping matters, as the smirk plastered across his face was enough to make even the most even-tempered of individuals uncomfortable. And Rider certainly wasn’t that placid.

For a moment Featherstone considered aborting the whole thing, or trying to find Rider another opponent. He hadn’t counted on the usually self-possessed Rider being so piqued or Bond so clearly enjoying the young trainee’s reaction. He had wanted this whole thing to remain as objective as possible, considering that the plan was for the two of them to attempt to beat the shit out of each other. Emotion, whether positive or negative, made that impossible and brought unwelcome uncertainty into the mix. But then he internally sighed in defeat as he rejected that option. Bond really was the only suitable agent that could consistently match Rider, at least once she was up to speed, and in some ways her irritation was a good thing. If she could restrain herself when that volcanic temper of hers was involved (she thought she had it disguised but to Featherstone its presence was only too obvious), she’d be far more likely not to lose control in the field.

“Well, that depends, Rider.” 

“On what, Sir?”

“Well, on how long it takes for you to demonstrate what I need you to develop,” he responded, mild in the face of his protégée’s quiet displeasure at the vagueness of the time-line he was proposing. But before she could become engrossed in that he decided to swiftly move things along. 

“Right, let’s get started. Rider, why don’t you warm up a little, while I brief 007?” It was an order phrased as a polite request and Rider automatically capitulated to his quiet authority by starting an easy jog around the gym but not before gracing her would-be opponent with another narrow eyed, faintly suspicious look. He just smirked in return.

“Bond,” Featherstone’s voice was quiet, but his tone dragged the younger man’s attention from where he had been analytically enjoying the sight of Rider’s perfect curves loping athletically around the space. There was something unusual about the girl (beyond the obvious), something Bond couldn’t quite put a finger on and he could tell it would continue to annoy him until he managed to pin whatever it was down. Too much field experience meant that he hated unsolved mysteries. They always came back to bite you at the most inconvenient moment. But Featherstone’s interjection disrupted his chain of thought and he turned to the older man, damping down his mild displeasure at the interruption.

“Remember what I said. _No permanent damage_. This is not a form of hazing, nor in my estimation does Rider need to be “brought down a peg or two”. She’s a good recruit; one that’s finding her feet so make sure this stays as impersonal as possible. It’s about _technique_ , Bond, not punishment. Understood?”

The older man’s expression was calm but the worry in his eyes reflected his concern and it was that that James replied to. “Of course.” He smiled, a little bitterly. “Don’t worry. Despite my reputation, I’m not really some form of sadist, Featherstone. I don’t make a habit of beating up children for my own entertainment.”

“I know, but Rider’s hardly a child, despite her age and I want to make sure that you don’t get carried away, especially when she starts hitting back. You have your own triggers, Bond, and I don’t want Rider to end up the victim of any of them. Otherwise, I shall be seriously displeased.”

There was a dark note in Featherstone’s voice now; a tone that said that Bond would do well to pay attention and it was to that he inclined his head.

“Understood. Put your concerns aside, John. I’ll make sure your protégée comes back to you in _almost_ one piece.”

Featherstone nodded and grudgingly a corner of his mouth tipped into a smile. “See that you do. Although at the rate that Rider learns, in a few more lessons I may have to give that warning to Rider, instead of you.”

Bond snorted his disdain at _that_ idea but the older man just shook his head at the younger agent's amused scepticism even as he moved off to buttonhole his trainee in order to brief her as well. Stranger things, after all, had happened and Rider’s kinetic memory and her ability to master new forms were both remarkable. 

The girl slowed down from her jog as Featherstone approached her although he noticed with some amusement that she was still keeping a wary eye on 007 as she did so. 

“Rider, I just want to give you a few pointers before we start. First – this is a _teaching exercise_. Whatever happens here is private between the three of us. It will not become common knowledge and 007 has given me his word that he will not speak of it to anyone unless absolutely necessary. Understood?”

She nodded.

“Accordingly, you should not be embarrassed about anything that may occur in this room.” He gave her a sharp look, determined to get his point across. “You are a remarkably talented young woman, Rider, but 007 has literally decades of experience in the field, on top of his natural talents, and the advantages of greater height and weight. And he understands completely how to fight at the level I am looking to teach you. Which you do not. As of yet. As such, he has you at a disadvantage. This does not reflect on your skills or natural abilities, at all. It just is the circumstances that you have to deal with today. So I do not want you overly dispirited about anything that happens in this session. _You will lose_. I thoroughly _expect_ you to lose. This is not about winning, not today. It is instead an exercise in technique. It is a teaching scenario and for you, probably the most effective one I can devise. But I need you to understand that this is what it is.”

She raised those green eyes to his for a moment, her gaze very solemn and then nodded choppily. “I do understand, Sir. Genuinely. My _other_ instructor uses a similar technique.” She smiled then, a little bleakly, a smile laced with emotions that Featherstone didn’t want to explore too deeply. “I’ve endured much worse in the name of training, I can assure you.”

“Good. Now on that note, there are a few things I want you to be aware of. 007 has been instructed to use enough force to inflict injury if he can get close enough. Not permanent injury but I have told him not to hesitate to inflict a hit. And _he will hurt you_ if he can, Rider. Please do not think for a moment that he won’t. You may be faster than him, but please don’t assume that you are, because if you do you are likely to find yourself in considerable pain as 007 is notoriously unpredictable. Adapt to what he throws at you. Improvise. That’s the most efficient way for you to develop your own non-lethal repertoire at this level. But do not for a minute forget what 007 is and what he can do. He’s a very dangerous man, Rider. So don’t make the mistake of under-estimating him.”

Rider briefly looked across the room to where 007 was lazily stretching, muscles rippling under his t-shirt, the edges of scars thin lines across his skin. For a moment their eyes met, 007’s unguarded for a moment, and Alex felt the hair on the back of her neck rise at her awareness of an apex predator. But then she felt the reassuring presence of the white empty space that always wound itself around her emotions when she was in imminent danger fall into place and she relaxed, the confident surety of the killer she fundamentally was wrapped around her like a comforting blanket. She smiled at 007, very slightly, a smile edged with the promise of pain and on the other side of the gym her opponent raised an eyebrow in amused assessment.

“Don’t worry,” Rider reassured her teacher, who was watching her, a faint frown of worry creasing his forehead. “I’m not that stupid.”

Bond hadn’t survived as long as he had because he made the mistake of underestimating his opponents, and Rider wasn’t about to become an exception to that rule just because she looked more like a lingerie model than an agent. But as they shifted into position across from each other he realised that it was the first time that the two of them had ever been in such close proximity without her avoiding his gaze and he grasped the opportunity to examine her fine-drawn features in more detail.

Bond considered himself to be somewhat of a connoisseur of women and although he was catholic in his tastes, female beauty was something he was extensively and intimately familiar with. In his past there had been women galore, models and spies and civilians and although (despite his reputation) he was not wholly fixated on looks, as he was only too aware that attraction genuinely was in the eye of the beholder, it did have to be admitted that the majority of women who ended up with him in their beds (he never brought them back to _his_ flat) would be considered to be some variety of conventionally alluring. And with a discerning and wholly objective eye, he had to admit that young Rider’s looks would put her right up there amongst the most attractive women he’d ever had the serendipity to be in close quarters with. It wasn’t just the slightly feline, tilted green eyes, the pale unblemished skin glowing with youth and health or the delicate architecture of her cheekbones, or that golden hair tightly pulled back into a bun that he could guess would cascade down her back when unbound. Or even her natural rosebud pout, with the unexpected lush carnality of her lower lip that just begged a man to tug at it with his teeth. It was the totality of her looks, the way it all blended together to elevate her from simply attractive to stunning in an almost disturbingly sensual way. And combined with her curves and the athleticism of her physique, it was the kind of package that reduced the majority of men to stuttering incoherence. Not Bond though. There had been too many women over too many years for mere physical beauty to affect his self-control. But that didn’t mean that he couldn’t appreciate Rider’s stunning looks for the pleasant distraction that they were. 

He was aware that he’d been cataloguing her with his eyes for longer than was strictly appropriate and from the look of barely leashed irritation that she was lashing him with, she had certainly noticed. He smirked at the evidence of all of that fire that she was so clearly trying to keep blanketed underneath a professional façade. Her poker face had certainly improved over the last few months but it wasn’t proof against the annoyance of his smirk, which he had actively worked on to maximise the irritation factor of over his time as a double O. After all, Bond was a great believer in using every weapon at his disposal and if you could cause a target to become sufficiently irritated to lose his temper, he or she would be far more likely to lose their control as well. He’d learned to elevate riling people almost to an art form simply with an eyebrow raise and considered it a tribute to his skill level that he frequently drove even M, who was generally considered to have glacier water rather than blood in her veins, to fits of pure snarling ire. Accordingly, young Rider didn’t have a hope in hell of maintaining her nascent ice-cool objectivity in the face of that level of provocation.

But she was doing an admirable job of trying and even as he watched, some of the quietly furious animation drained from her face leaving behind a familiar mask of cool calculation, green eyes calm and assessing as she studied his form, remarkably objective. And Bond realised it was that very objectivity that he’d been unable to put a finger on earlier.

James knew that he was an attractive man, if a little rough-hewn around the edges. He had honed a natural charisma into yet another weapon in his arsenal and there was a reason that his reputation as a seducer was so legendary. He was a fundamentally masculine figure, an alpha male who gave off an almost unconscious air of raw sexuality, and there were very few individuals that he had met, whether male or female who didn’t react to him on some level, even if it was sub-conscious. Men found him intimidating or a rival or an object of attraction depending on their predilections and women without fail found him intriguing, or more frequently, irresistible, especially when he was prepared to turn on the charm. Even females who were pretty much proof against his powers of seduction, such as M, and women who preferred other women still tended to acknowledge his attractiveness, even if only to factor it into whatever complex calculation as to his usefulness or his potential for mayhem that they were currently performing. But there hadn’t been anyone female over the age of puberty that simply hadn’t reacted to him on some level for decades.

Until now.

That little thing that Bond always saw when women looked at him, that subtle sexual assessment, was completely missing from Rider’s green edged gaze. It was as if she didn’t see him as male at all, except that she was factoring in the added height and weight and reach his masculinity granted him from the perspective of defending herself. And it wasn’t even extreme self-possession. No, he’d seen that before and there was always that slight awareness of his sexual potential glimmering in the back of any assessing gaze. But with Rider that simply wasn’t there and its absence was almost glaring. He could actually see the gap. It was as if he was being stared at by a deadly pre-pubescent child or a wild animal.

In fact it most reminded him of when he’d been on winter survival training in the frozen snowy Norwegian woods back when he was with the SBS. The exercise had been to ambush a squad of SAS and Bond had been given leeway to set up as he liked. He’d hiked for half a day into position through the icy woods to a cliff above a likely choke point hours before he expected contact and had set up a makeshift hide in the snow with his rifle, drifting into a half doze over time while he waited, alert to any noise but husbanding his strength against the cold. A few hours later he’d been alerted by an almost imperceptible crack of a twig breaking not too far too his left on the cliff top and he had turned his head slowly to meet the detached golden gaze of a large grey and white wolf only a few metres away from his prone body. Bond had tensed, as had the animal, and for a second the two of them had regarded each other, ice-blue eyes gazing into lambent gold, neither moving. Bond still remembered the moment with startling clarity, even all these years later. _Move or do not move_ , the wolf’s gaze seemed to say. _Fight or do not fight. It is all the same. I am as prepared for one or the other. Nothing you can do, human, will make any difference to me_. 

For an almost endless beat of time the two predators had stared at each other, neither willing to either make the first move or to back down, and then the wolf’s head had jerked up at some sound beyond the range of Bond’s hearing and before James could react, the animal was gone, bounding across the snow in a flash, until the only thing Bond could see was a brief glimpse of a disappearing tail.

But that look, that totally resigned but alert objectivity, had stayed with him over the years and it was that look, he realised, that he was seeing in Rider’s eyes. It was then that he understood that M had been correct, as she so often was, to his chagrin. Rider was broken. There was some essential part of the standard human psyche that was missing or so damaged as to be imperceptible in her case, the part of a normal person’s make-up that knew desire and associated sex with pleasure. And for Bond, without that, trying to wheedle his way into Rider’s bed would be tantamount to child abuse. And he never had been a man to condone that kind of cruelty.

So reluctantly he put aside his half formed plans for seduction. But, he mused, as he surveyed the figure poised opposite him, that didn’t mean that Rider couldn’t provide him with _some_ entertainment. 

 

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Featherstone bit back his misgivings as he looked at the two figures standing across from each other. 007 was impassive, only the slightest curl of one corner of his lip betraying his mood, while Rider was doing a remarkable imitation of being unperturbed even as her flickering gaze microscopically catalogued 007’s every movement. This whole scenario could be the very definition of the cliché of a triumph or a disaster but until the exercise was completed, it would be unclear as to which. He sighed to himself. Might as well get started. 

After all, there was no point in delaying the inevitable.

“007. Rider. On my count of three please feel free to engage.” He waited for the answering nods, curter from Rider than from 007 as she tried to conceal her apprehension.

“Three. Two. One. _Engage_.”

Rider had thought that 007 might hold back initially, attempt to goad her into action or wait for her to make the first move but instead he exploded towards her from a standing start, incredibly fast for a man of his size and she found herself back pedalling at a furious speed, immediately on the defensive. For the next few minutes Rider’s world narrowed down to a blur of reaction and evasion as she tried to build a picture of 007’s capabilities. But he didn’t allow her to, pushing too fast and responding too quickly for her to grab those precious moments to just _think_. 

To Featherstone, watching, it was clear what Rider was trying to do, but she was also still clearly operating in sparring mode, respectful of 007’s abilities but consistently reacting as though this was just another training session with others from her cohort (although obviously more difficult than most). Her sheer speed was keeping her out of trouble but she was still retaliating on an intellectual level rather than by dropping into the automatic physical responses that her other training and her years in the field had ground into her muscle memory. And he needed her to make the transition into that unconscious mode, otherwise this whole exercise would be pointless.

So. Time to take it up a notch.

Bond moved forward yet again, striking - arm, elbow, knee, watching with detached admiration as Rider blocked all of his blows with no more than a slight grunt of effort. She really was remarkably talented for some one of her age and although he had understood that intellectually from the times he had observed her in training, it was very different to be the one fighting opposite her, and getting to experience the sheer fluidity of movement that she brought to the table first-hand. 

He had spent the first few minutes of their encounter subtly testing her defences, not pushing too hard and certainly not escalating, but then he caught Featherstone’s subtle nod out of his peripheral vision. Right. Time to take the gloves off. He surged forward, feinting and then suddenly accelerating and before Rider could recover from her avoidance of his feint, his fist struck her full on the jaw, knuckles contacting against soft skin and the underlying bone, leaving Bond with a brief sensory impression of skin like silk, hitting hard enough to snap her head back on her neck and send her stumbling a few steps in retreat.

_Contact_. 

_**Pain** _

As always, the first time she was hit in a fight, the pain came as an unwelcome surprise, even though she’d been hit a hundred times before. She felt the momentary numbness as her body tried to process the intrusion and then the starburst of her nerves firing even as her head snapped back and her body shifted in an attempt to counterbalance the force that propelled her into retreat. But pain was familiar, a well-known friend and neurones and responses that hadn’t so far been brought into bear in this encounter fired up as that soft accustomed blanket of absolute detachment slipped down over her and her mind stopped thinking and started _reacting_.

There was something here in this room that had _hurt_ her. And that thing needed. To. Be. _Stopped_.

Rider swept forward, her features a cold mask of concentration, her eyes disturbingly blank, devoid of their normal inquisitive warmth and Featherstone blinked at the unexpected difference in her demeanour. She was pushing Bond now, had put him on the defensive, the tables abruptly turned as she rained a hail of blows and kicks down on him, leaving him no time to do anything other than simply _respond_. Her trainer could see it now, how she’d made the shift from planned reaction to unconscious fluidity but he could also see how she’d stopped _thinking_ and was simply _fighting_. And the strikes that she was using were slowly transmuting into killing moves despite his previous instructions.

Bond found that he was abruptly back-pedalling, taken by surprise by the increased ferocity and focus of Rider’s counter attack. She moved like a snake, all sinuous intent, disturbingly graceful even as she tried to kill him. And she _was_ trying to kill him. He recognised the combination of strikes and kicks and blocks but even more he knew from the lack of expression on that beautiful face, the mask-like loss of emotion, the deadness in her eyes firing up his own self-preservation instincts in a way that almost nothing else could. She was a tsunami of violence, a hurricane that was trying to destroy him and it was becoming harder and harder to prevent his own entrenched reactions from striking back with identical levels of lethal purpose. He was trying to hold it together, but he could feel the edges of his control starting to fray as her blows became more vicious and more targeted, as the pain started to fire off his nerve endings, the killer in him starting to slip its boundaries and snarl and Featherstone- was-going-to-have-to-do-something -soon -or -someone -was-going -to -get -hurt -and-he-wasn’t-too-sure which-out-of-the-two of-them-it-was-going- to-be.

Rider was in the zone now, fully concentrated, locked onto her target, her entire body coiled for one purpose only, to hurt that which had hurt her. She was vaguely aware that she wasn’t in the field, that there was perhaps something she should have been remembering about this scenario but all of that had slipped into the background as the overwhelming urge to destroy the threat wiped out all other considerations. She was flying, alert to every movement of her opponent and when a rush and a kick of hers connected, hitting him in the ribs with a solid _thunk_ that drove the air from his lungs with a grunt and sent him staggering a few steps backwards, off balance, she sprang forward, eager to take advantage. 

She was coming for him now and he was off kilter, still suffering the effects of that kick to his ribs star-bursting with pain and he was going to have to escalate if he wanted to avoid serious injury and –

_**“Rider!”** _

Featherstone’s shout snapped out across the room like a whip, edged with absolute command and Bond saw it hit Rider, almost literally, causing her to stumble in her headlong rush, the mask of deadly purpose across her face cracking before his eyes, just for a moment. 

_**“Back-up! Non-lethal I said.”** _

Bond regained his footing in the blink of an eye that it took her to recover but Featherstone didn’t let up, like a shepherd whistling a sheep-dog to heel, not giving her a moment to re-focus all of that killing energy on her opponent. 

_“Break it down, Rider. Focus! Non-terminal strikes only.”_

Rider shook her head, like a horse trying to ward of the incessant buzzing of a fly but Featherstone was relentless, not letting her drop back into the zone she had been in before, forcing her to hold that delicate balance between unconscious adrenaline fuelled response and considered reaction. Bond saw her uncertainty and attacked again, driving her back, but careful not to strike in such a way that Rider’s unconscious brain would interpret as intent to kill. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t get his licks in and he did, clinically working her over, blows to the body, strikes that she blocked with frantic haste, all of her previous deadly fluidity ripped from her by Featherstone’s constant interjections, like a dog owner yanking on a corrective choke chain every time the animal lunged.

It was unfair to call it a humiliation, because none of the participants treated it as such, but, as Featherstone had predicted, Rider was hopelessly and unfairly at a disadvantage now that her ability to access her unconscious responses was being so comprehensively undermined. 007 was older than her, more experienced, and with the added advantages of height and weight and reach, but all of that could have been compensated for by Rider’s natural talent and her quicksilver speed. But what she couldn’t compensate for were the advantages of 007’s familiarity with the language of non-terminal violence that Featherstone wanted her to develop while she was still struggling to adapt and create her own, and the hours that Bond had spent watching her spar with other opponents. She had no previous exposure to his fighting style or detailed understanding of his capabilities and he took ruthless advantage of those weaknesses. And with Featherstone’s constant interruptions, she had no chance to do anything more reactionary than defend herself. 

It wasn’t all one sided, as every so often Rider would go on the offensive and break through 007s iron defences, but Featherstone only allowed it when she was utilising the techniques that he wanted her to develop and so half of her attacks were aborted by his barked command before they could land, throwing her further and further off balance. Rider didn’t know how long the encounter lasted but it seemed like an eternity of frustration combined with the dull throb of blows landed and the pitiless expression on the face of 007 as he systematically worked her over. She hadn’t been this comprehensively beaten up without being able to fight back with her full capabilities for years and it was only the cool, detached clinical nature of 007’s countenance as he attacked over and over again that stopped her from completely losing the plot and allowed her to remember that this was, in fact, despite how little it felt like it, a teaching exercise, rather than an exercise in ritualised humiliation. 

Eventually, when Featherstone noted that they were both starting to flag despite their exceptionally high levels of mutual fitness, he called a halt; keen to avoid the kind of accidental injury that exhaustion only too often led to. There was already a bruise the size and shape of 007s fist starting to bloom over the delicate line of Rider's jaw, her lip was cut and swollen and she was limping, favouring one leg and trying not to hunch over to alleviate the pain in her ribs even as she subtly manipulated one wrist to check how badly jarred it was. And that didn’t account for the bruises that she could feel chequer-boarding her skin under her work out gear and her overall exhaustion. She was going to have to text Eddie because there was no way she was going to be able to train properly with him tomorrow morning after this. 

But when she glanced up at her opponent she at least had the satisfaction that he didn’t look much better. 007 had the beginnings of a distinct black eye where she had caught him with a lucky elbow strike, he was leaning heavily on his right leg, obviously trying to minimise the weight he was putting on his left and by the way he was slightly curled to one side and was tentatively poking at his ribs at least a few of her punches and kicks to his mid-section had obviously hit target. And that didn’t include all the red marks dotting his arms that would undoubtedly develop into some particularly colourful bruises in short order. To her satisfaction, he was definitely breathing hard, even as he looked down at his torso to catalogue his injuries. While she had clearly come out the worse off from their encounter, she had gone down fighting and she hadn’t embarrassed herself. And she already felt that she had a grasp of an embryonic version of the fighting style that Featherstone was so keen for her to develop, so it had been worth it. Just a few more sessions and she had faith that she would get a handle on the whole thing. Strangely enough, she found she was looking forward to those sessions already. Even more bizarrely, she found she wanted those sessions to be with 007. Because he might be a bastard, but he was a bastard who could keep up with her and had something to teach her and that was worth dealing with almost any level of basic irritation.

She was still musing over that surprising realisation when Featherstone walked over to the two of them, carefully scanning their expressions for left-over aggression before he moved within arms reach. He had enough experience with trigger happy agents who were still full of post-fight adrenaline to be understandably cautious and these two were deadlier than most, even as bruised and battered as they now were. It had certainly been an… _interesting_ …experience to observe and there had been a few moments when John had genuinely thought that they might kill each other.

But his own constant disruption of Rider’s deadly flow (and hadn’t that been something to see, and faintly terrifying in its own right) had kept her mostly on the path that he wanted and although watching Bond systematically beat up a young girl for her own education hadn’t exactly been the most pleasant experience Featherstone had ever had, it had clearly been effective. By the end of the bout he could already see the foundations of what he wanted Rider to develop start to enroot and despite how battered she might superficially seem to be, he could already tell from the determined glint in her eye and the stubborn set to her bruised chin that it was only physical, surface damage. He already knew from their few months of association that Rider didn’t really care about that. It had been the effect on her morale that he had been more worried about, but by the fierce, considering look on her face, he doubted he needed to be concerned about that any longer.

“Rider, 007. How are you feeling?”

Two heads turned to him in uncanny synchrony and he bit back an atavistic pulse of unease at the frankly predatory evaluation from two sets of identically focused eyes. But then Rider blinked and 007 looked back down at his injuries and the moment passed, the normal reticent warmth and curiosity seeping back into his charge’s green-eyed gaze as she met his enquiring look. 

“Fine, Sir.” Her mouth twitched as she recognised that her tendency towards British understatement was probably a little too exaggerated at this point even as he raked her with a faintly disapproving, old-fashioned look. 

“Well, not _totally_ fine.” She shifted and then winced a little as one of her myriad of bruises made itself known. “But I _will_ be. I’m sure.”

“Hhmm.” He eyed her suspiciously, not wholly convinced. “I want you to report to the Infirmary after this anyway to get a full physical check.” She made to protest and he raised a hand to forestall her. “No argument. Understood?”

She sighed and winced again, accepting the inevitable. “Yes, Sir.”

“But did you think it was useful, Rider? Worth the….discomfort?”

She brightened. “Oh yes, Sir. It was very helpful. Not exactly….comfortable,” she acknowledged, “but definitely worth it. And 007 was very effective.”

At the sound of his codename the aforementioned agent pulled his attention away from examining his medley of small injuries and looked up at them both. 

“Well, Featherstone,” he drawled, glancing from one to the other, mouth twitching in amusement. “This is a first for me. Normally people aren’t interested in thanking me when I beat them up.”

Rider raised an eyebrow, an imp of mischief uncharacteristically taking hold of her. “Don’t think of it as a thank you for a beat down, Sir,” she responded, her tone arch and artificially sweet. “Just think of it as gratitude for an _object lesson_.”

For a moment 007 stared at her, clearly wondering at the state of her mental health and then he grinned and barked a laugh, wincing as it pulled at his bruised ribs, white teeth temporarily bloodied from a blow that she had landed that had split his lip, gleaming macabrely in the white light of the overhead spotlights as he smiled. He spat to clear his mouth of the coppery iron taste, red blood splattering on the gym floor, which caused Featherstone to roll his eyes at the younger man’s lack of consideration for the maintenance staff, and then smirked at the head of training and his young protégée. She was watching him in a considering fashion, looking despite her injuries as though she was quite prepared to meet him for another bout should he suggest it, the faintest tinge of an irrepressible glint in her eyes. God, he actually _liked_ the girl. That was unexpected. He grinned again and she met his gaze squarely, not a hint of the kind of apprehension he was used to dealing with day to day from the normal staff at Six in the stare she gave back to him. And it wasn’t even bravado either. He smiled at her, one of his rare genuine smiles and that bright, fierce look softened, an element of confusion slipping into those green eyes that met his so easily. He was going to _have_ to continue this experiment, even just for his own enjoyment. He hadn’t been so entertained by a fight in _years_ , despite how close she had come to actually winning. 

He cocked his head at her, that irrepressible smile still on his face. He was aware of Featherstone’s faintly suspicious, narrow eyed look but the majority of his attention was on Rider’s bruised face and without further ado, he thrust out a hand.  


“Do you know,” he drawled, “I don’t think that we have been formally introduced.”

She regarded his hand and him for a moment, clearly slightly baffled, and then she shrugged, wincing as the movement pulled at an injury and reached out her own hand to meet his.

“I’m Rider. Alex Rider.”

Her long fingers were warm and slender in his grip, the edges of her palm rough with the callouses of the serious martial artist and he clasped her hand firmly, squeezing gently before letting go. 

“The name’s Bond. James Bond. And it’s a genuine pleasure to meet you, Alex Rider.” He studied her face for a moment and grinned again. “And you know what, Rider? I think this might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

And ignoring Featherstone’s harrumph of disgust, he was rewarded a minute later when a small but growing smile spread over the battered face of the young woman in front of him. “Maybe,” she responded cheekily. “We’ll have to see.” 

Yes, Bond considered even as he smiled back at her. They would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _All comments (very) gratefully received - did it meet with your expectations? Please expect a delay now before chapter 13 is posted, as I haven't written it yet....._


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Author is aware that the motto mentioned here is not canon as being actually attributed to Bond’s family, despite the reference in the film “The World is not enough,” but I liked it – so there you are! Further, to the best of my limited research the technical term for an individual employed in an operational capacity within MI6 is “Officer” rather than agent. However, Bond canon refers to ‘agents’. Accordingly I am sticking with Bond’s terminology rather than the real title._

**_85 Albert Embankment – August 2009_ **

The furious tempo of the clack of M’s stiletto heels echoed against the slate of the flooring in the corridor leading into her office suite, the thin line of her tightly compressed lips and the glint in those gimlet eyes were enough of a warning that those of her staff who had previous experience with their boss in this particular mood either abruptly flattened themselves against the side of the throughway as she stormed past or made themselves as scarce as possible, slinking out of the ante chamber that led to her office to go and hunt down a sandwich, or a coffee or any other excuse they could think of to avoid being within fall out distance when Hurricane M finally hit land. As it would undoubtedly do and probably in the next few minutes, if their previous experience of their Chief in a towering temper had taught them anything. Those few who were left hunkered down at their desks and tried to be as unobtrusive as possible, rabbits flattening themselves against the grass in fear of the shadow of a hawk soaring overhead. Their efforts weren’t wholly successful and more than one blameless staffer flinched as M’s gaze seared across them like fire, brutally assessing them and finding them wanting, all in a millisecond. 

M wasn’t really aware of just how badly she was traumatising her wholly innocent administrative staff as she stormed past but if she had been she wouldn’t have wasted the time to regret the effect of her actions. 

_Je ne regrette rien_. It would have been her personal motto if she could ever have been bothered with anything that self-indulgent. Unlike Bond with his family’s _Mundi est non satis_ (and in Latin too, how pretentious) she came from solidly middle-class stock and had little or no patience with the intricacies of the old upper class British families and their perpetual games of class and creed. 

But it was true that she had little time for hindsight and even less for regret. Her position was one that did not encourage sentimentality and in the past (and no doubt in the future) she had ordered a man killed before lunch and contentedly fallen asleep at the end of the day with not even a qualm and no loss of appetite. Only a hurt to her own could pierce that iron composure and even then only when it was a squandering of resources rather than a necessary wergild to pay in order to reach the goal she sought. Such a waste as it had been today, which was, in her opinion, unforgivable. 

Usually the sight of the cool windowed serenity of her office gave her comfort, the vast expanses of glass (bullet proof of course, and mirrored on the exterior) presenting her with a perfect view of London and the Thames, both stretched ahead of her in all of their changeable glory, a reminder of her responsibilities, and a reassurance that today at least, she hadn’t failed them. But at this moment all she could see and hear as she glared out over the river was the satellite image from thirty minutes earlier with its pitiless litany of disaster and the harshly bitten off groans of pain from her agent, a man so stoic that the level of trauma he must have been enduring for those grunts of agony to escape must have been almost unimaginable. And it had all been so very preventable as well. _That_ was what made her so furious. 

Abruptly she swivelled in place, slamming her hands down flat on her desk and leaning forward to fix the gaggle of men who had followed cautiously in her wake from the moment of her departure from the Ops Centre to her office with a narrow eyed and furious stare.

“Well, that was a bloody _disaster_. One double-0 seriously wounded, probably badly enough that he’ll never be able to return to the field in any serious capacity - if he manages to survive the next few hours that is! The objective lost as well and all because two cretins that dared to call themselves agents refused to take a direct order in the field! I’ll have someone’s head for this, gentlemen, don’t think that I won’t,” she warned, every word edged with cut glass as she held on to her temper by the very thinnest of margins.

Tanner dared to interject, after further consulting his file. “Support has notified us that they have managed to stabilise 003 and are arranging for his immediate airvac to the nearest secure medical facility. They’ll keep us updated.”

She nodded in acknowledgement. “Well, at least _that’s_ something. But I want to know what happened here, gentlemen. And I want to know _now._ ”

For a beat there was silence as the group standing ranged around her desk studiously avoided looking at each other, none of them eager to be the focus of her undivided attention. Then McLaren sighed silently to himself and picked up the baton on behalf of his momentarily gutless colleagues. 

“Agents Thompson and Settler had been dispatched to provide support to 003 at the suggestion of Senior Agent Robinson, as 003 had indicated his intention of engaging in a scenario where he would benefit from physical back up. Accordingly, Robinson arranged for Thompson and Settler to be shipped in-country as soon as possible. Thompson has five years’ experience in the field, while Settler has two. We understand that the three agents rendezvoused with each other without incident but that the issue that caused the operation to fall short of its stated goals occurred later on once the team had become operational.”

M eyed him steadily, pinning him in place with her eagle’s stare. Emboldened by her lack of comment, he continued. “003 indicated that that he required Thompson and Settler to take positions to cover 003’s six should the expected meet not proceed as planned. We understand that Thompson disagreed with 003’s tactical assessment of the planned meeting point but that 003 overruled Thompson’s concerns on the basis of his understanding of the personalities involved and his assessment of the situation on the ground. Thompson further contested the issue and lodged his protest with 003’s handler at Ops.”

“Who was 003’s handler on this mission?”

McLaren briefly consulted his file again. “Cooper, I believe, Ma’am. One of Boothroyd’s people of course. But not 003’s normal handler. In fact I understand that Cooper has only just been promoted from handling standard field agents into the double 0 section.”

M closed her eyes briefly in frustrated understanding. “Of course.” The shape of this balls-up was becoming increasingly clear to her. “So, where was 003’s usual handler?”

McLaren grimaced. “003 is normally handled by S, who as you are aware has considerable experience in supporting double 0 agents in the field. But Q had tasked S to assist in that multi-agency task force we’ve been running with the DGSE in Paris as his French is fluent, so Cooper was slotted in to take his place on a temporary basis. And in his defence he had been performing above expectations in training and in the supervised actions Q has been allowing him to run. Plus, this was meant to be a fairly simple meet and greet, so I understand that R thought it would be a good mission for Cooper to get his feet wet as handler in charge.”

“I see. And I am assuming that Cooper hasn’t had a great deal of experience of overruling senior agents in the field?”

McLaren glanced down at the file. “No, ma’am,” he confirmed. “At least not that I can see.”

“Right.” She waved a hand, but sat down at her desk as she did so. The men in the room took it as the signal that it was and relaxed slightly, either finding chairs to sit in or leaning against convenient walls or items of furniture. Only McLaren remained standing as he waited patiently for his boss to settle in to her chair. After a moment she nodded. 

“Continue.”

“Cooper noted Thompson’s protest but backed 003’s tactical decision. However it seems that Thompson subsequently made a decision based on his own initiative to move from the position that 003 had assigned him in order to provide 003 with what he considered to be a better angle of cover.”

“Where was Settler during this _“decision”_ making process?”

“At the position that 003 had assigned to him. However, once Thompson moved Settler was forced to adjust his perch to allow for Thompson’s new location. I haven’t checked the recordings of the audio feed myself, but I understand that Settler verbally queried Thompson’s move. But Thompson over-ruled him on the basis of his seniority in the field.”

“Was 003 aware of these machinations?” 

McLaren shook his head. “The meeting was off comms. 003 was aware that he would be searched by the contact’s security before the target arrived. Accordingly he couldn’t risk the possibility of his communication gear being found. And it was also why he wasn’t armed at the time. Hence the need for Thompson and Settler as armed back up should the meet proceed less than optimally.”

The glacial raise of M’s eyebrow showed exactly what she thought of that decision but her tone was calm and unaffected when she responded. “So, to clarify, 003 had no idea that his back-up had spontaneously decided to shift position?”

“No, ma’am. And accordingly, when the target became aggressive and started shooting 003 proceeded to evade on the basis of his original tactical assessment.”  


“And the covering fire that should have been there…wasn’t.”

“Yes. That’s about the size of it, ma’am.”

She rubbed a hand across her forehead and sighed. “Well. This is a bloody mess.” She glanced up at her aide.

“Tanner – what was 003’s medical assessment at the scene?”

“Three gunshots, ma’am. One through and through to the shoulder, but another just above the knee and the other in the stomach.” The men arrayed around the room uniformly winced, despite the clinical nature of Tanner’s report. They knew only too well what was disguised by that brief rendition of 003’s injuries. The shoulder was acceptable collateral but the knee was a potentially crippling laceration and a bullet wound to the gut was one of the most painful and potentially fatal traumas the human body could sustain. If 003 survived the blood loss and initial shock there was the strong possibility of septicaemia developing, and even if he managed to get through that his recovery would be long and painful. It was certainly doubtful that he would ever return to the field at his previous level. 

M’s mouth had tightened even further at Tanner’s recitation and more than one of the men leaning against the walls of her office tried to blend even further into the wallpaper at the rage shimmering in those blue eyes. “ _Right_. So one of the best double 0s we have, written off. And we didn’t even gain the objective, so it was for nothing. _I despise waste, gentlemen._ ” There was a snarl in her voice now and her audience shifted restlessly as her ire licked up their collective spines. “So what went wrong, and more to the point – _how can we stop it from happening again?_ ”

There was a moment of silence and then a sudden cacophony of voices as the men around the room chipped in with their analysis and suggestions. M let them talk, occasionally picking one out to expand his contribution but otherwise acted more as Chairwoman than discussion leader, content to let the groupthink of these, her most trusted subordinates, work its way through the problem. It was about ten minutes later when she abruptly silenced the noise with a sharp chopping gesture of one small hand. “So, gentlemen –what’s our conclusion?”

As was often the case, Tanner took the lead. “It was clearly a combination of circumstances, ma’am. Some issues were due to the situation on the ground, some due to the personalities involved…”

“I disagree,” the sudden deep bass of Six’s Head of Training cut across Tanner’s lighter baritone like a knife through butter.

Heads turned at the unexpected interjection, eyebrows raised. Featherstone stared coolly back at the group and then his gaze turned to the lodestone of the room, who raised her chin in enquiry.

“Featherstone. I was beginning to wonder if you’d lost your voice entirely,” she commented in her driest tone.

The Head of Training inclined his head at the hit, his mouth slightly quirked. “Ma’am,” he acknowledged blandly. She rolled her eyes expressively and around the room more than one man hastily camouflaged a flash of amusement as M’s countenance lost the razor edge of its annoyance. She ignored them as she regarded her oldest double 0 thoughtfully for a second, before nodding for him to continue.

“Well, John? Don’t keep us waiting, now you’ve decided to grace us with your wisdom,” her tone was acerbic but he could hear the long suffering warmth beneath and he nodded to her respectfully even as he pushed away from the wall to move into the centre of the room before he started to speak, the deep roil of his voice soft, but pitched to carry to the ears of the group.

“While Tanner is right that this _particular_ debacle is undoubtedly a result of the personalities involved and the circumstances on the ground, I believe that there is an underlying fundamental problem that we haven’t dealt with properly.”

“And that is?”

“ _Trust_ , ma’am. Or should I say, the lack of it,” he clarified.

M’s eyebrows furrowed as she considered his comment. “In what context?”

He moved to stand in front of her desk, sweeping a considering gaze across the mass of his colleagues. The majority were senior figures in the organisation, and a large percentage had either operational backgrounds or significant exposure to ground operations from a support perspective. But of all of them, he was the only one who had been active as a double 0 in the field and who had the experience of what that meant on a day to day basis. It didn’t make them lesser, (although some of his fellows in the double 0 section would undoubtedly dispute that conclusion) but it did give him a slightly different perspective. One that even M didn’t share. He sighed. Now how to explain this….

“Ma’am, I think we should consider whether these issues would have happened if the lead agent in question had simply been a standard Senior Field Agent.”

M cocked her head at him, considering. “Explain.”

“Senior Field Agents work closely within the protocols and guidelines that have been established over the history of Six, and which are regularly revised. They are familiar with those guidelines and usually, comfortable with them. Further, as they train together and often operate in the field as a team, they are familiar with _each other_.” Featherstone glanced around at the group of his colleagues, seeing a number of heads nod as they agreed with his statement. “Accordingly, they know what to expect in the field when working together. And because of this, they have trust in each other’s judgement if a scenario arises in which they have to proceed _outside those directives._ ”

“Yes,” M allowed. “I can see that is likely to be the case. But how does it help with our issue today?”

“Ma’am, with respect, I think it cuts to the heart of it.” She raised a quizzical eyebrow again and he hastened to explain. “In contrast to standard Field Agents, the double 0s generally operate on a solo basis. This has always been SOP for the section, and although it is arguable” his lips twitched despite himself, as he thought for a moment of Bond, a one man wrecking crew in his own lifetime, “whether this is because discretion is meant to be a double 0’s best weapon, or simply that double 0 agents tend to operate at too fast and idiosyncratic a pace for standard support to be effective, it is generally agreed that double 0s are usually more effective alone, or when greater numbers are required, paired with another double 0.”

M inclined her head in agreement. “True. But I am assuming that you are going somewhere with this, Featherstone?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He glanced around the room at his colleagues, a little wry now. “As I am sure you are aware, ma’am, the double 0 section has a certain….reputation….amongst the rest of Six.” 

M snorted. “Very diplomatically put, Featherstone,” she commented dryly. “If you mean that they are considered by the rank and file to be one step up from psychopathic? Then yes, I am aware. It’s not a reputation that I approve of, and I would expect the more senior members of Six to be aware that it is an inaccurate representation,” she raked her gimlet stare over the assorted ‘senior members’ who tried to do their best to avoid her gaze while frantically thinking of the last time they had exchanged double 0 horror stories over drinks with their more junior colleagues. “But I do know that it exists. But what does that have to do with our current debacle?”

“I would submit that it is has _everything_ to do with it, ma’am and I have been studying this point for some time. In fact as someone who is familiar with both Senior Field Agents and the double 0s, I am surprised that the issue hasn’t arisen before now. We train Senior Field Agents to be team players, to be familiar with each other, and to build trust by way of exposure. In contrast, we expect double 0s to work on a solo basis and teach them to be fundamentally suspicious of anyone they come into contact with, up to and including other members of Six. In fact, I remember that you have in the past commented to me that the most effective double 0 is one who suspects everyone but themselves.”

“Yes. That’s fairly accurate,” M confirmed.

“Combined with the reputation that the section has amongst the rest of Six, all of those factors add up to a slow burning fuse just waiting to ignite. Senior Field Agents are tasked, frequently at very short notice, to provide tactical back up, often in high stress and extremely dangerous situations to double 0s whom they have frequently never met before and who they only know of by way of exaggerated and less than factual reputation. That would be enough to put any agent on the defensive. Combine that with the fact that the double 0s they are usually sent to back up, generally provide the absolute minimum of information to their support teams as they have been trained in need-to-know until it’s a fundamental tenant of their existence, plus they usually don’t know the field agents from Adam either and certainly don’t trust them….” His voice trailed off as he shook his head ruefully. “It is, and pardon the language, ma’am, a clusterfuck just waiting to happen on every single operation. In fact, I am genuinely amazed that a breakdown in communications like the events of today hasn’t happened before.”

The room was quiet as the assembly considered Featherstone’s comments. M sighed to herself. The problem was that he was right, as usual. However, before she could respond, Tanner cut in.

“So what do you suggest, Featherstone? Forcible social interaction?”

This immediately led to a number of smothered snorts of amusement, despite the seriousness of the discussion. “Double 0 cheese and wine, perhaps?” one wit suggested. “Free mayhem with the desert course?” There were audible sniggers at that, while Featherstone only raised a tolerantly amused eyebrow. However M decided it was best to intervene before the conversation went entirely off-track.

“Yes, gentlemen. Very entertaining. But back to the matter in hand, if you don’t mind. So, John, since you have been mulling this issue over for some time, I am assuming that you have been considering a _solution_ to the problem as well.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he acknowledged. “It’s about familiarity, on both sides,” he continued and he smiled a little at Brown, the wit who had made the cheese and wine comment. “While I wouldn’t exactly advise forcible socialisation, I would suggest that the best option may be to assign individual Field Agents on a semi-permanent basis to each double 0. While I appreciate that in this case this may not be a panacea for all ills, I believe that it will go a substantial way to minimising or alleviating the problem.”

M frowned. “Permanent partners?”

Featherstone hesitated for a moment as he attempted to clarify. “Not so much _partners_ , ma’am, as back-up. It won’t be perfect, as we will not always be able to logistically guarantee that each double 0 is supported by the same Field Agents each time. However, if we make an effort, we can ensure that familiar support is provided to the double 0s in the field at least the majority of the time, even if the coverage isn’t one hundred percent.”

“And you think that’s going to solve this problem?” M was a little sceptical, even though she could see the value in his idea.

“Not completely, ma’am, but it will certainly help to alleviate it. And it will help even more if the double 0s are required to train on a semi-regular basis with their support personnel.” He sighed. 

“Double 0s are inherently untrusting, ma’am. But we don’t _require_ them to trust their support team _implicitly_ , just enough that they feel comfortable operating with them in the field on an occasional basis. And on the Field Agents’ side, well they are trained to work in a team environment. All they will need to back up a double 0 in those situations is a level of comfort as to the lead double 0s tactical understanding of the situation and of his experience. Once they have that, they will cease to second guess the situation. And they can only gain that exposure to the double 0s through a certain amount of training together. It doesn’t have to be extensive, just enough so that the Field Agents can see beyond the section’s reputation and realise that the cadre really aren’t as insane and reckless as their institutional reputation has led them to believe. Which they aren’t.”

“Apart from Bond,” someone murmured _sotto voice_ at the back of the room. 

M and Featherstone ignored the comment, despite its somewhat unfortunate semi-accuracy. Bond was an outlier, even amongst the double 0s. 

The room was quiet as M considered. As usual Featherstone had come up with an idea that merited further investigation and after a moment she nodded decisively. 

“Right. Well, it certainly won’t hurt to give it a try. Do you want a random assignation of agent to double 0 or would you prefer to draft something?”

“If you wouldn’t mind ma’am, I would prefer to make my own selection. I can have a list for you tomorrow, if you would prefer.”

M raised an eyebrow again. That was quick work, and clear proof that Featherstone had been considering this for far longer than he may have been willing to let on. “Yes. That will be fine.” She turned to the rest of the group.

“Right, gentlemen. Those that I will need to clean up this mess on the ground, stay here. The rest of you, back to your stations. I expect a full report on today’s events from each of your departments on my desk by this time tomorrow.”

Her people nodded their acknowledgement, leaving one by one with a soft chorus, of “Yes, ma’am,” until only the small core of people she needed and Featherstone were left. Before he could turn to make his exit she stopped him, her tone now one of dry amusement. 

“You do love to set the cat amongst the pigeons, John.” 

Her oldest surviving double 0 gave her a look that in anyone other than a 6ft 2 ex-special forces veteran would be considered innocent. “Me, ma’am?”

“Yes, you, Featherstone,” she responded tartly. “I have more than a slight suspicion that you considered that this was simply the most tactically opportune moment to bring up a plan that you’ve been hatching for a while...”

He simply looked at her, neither admitting nor denying her accusation and after a moment she laughed quietly and waved him on his way. “Get on with it, John and I’ll see you tomorrow with your report.” He turned to go but she stopped him with one last comment.

“And Featherstone? Be assured, if we do roll-out this program, you’ll be the one who has the delightful experience of informing the double 0s of their new obligations. And I’m sure that they’ll enjoy that _immensely._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Please review! And as my usual beta has unfortunately been unable to nitpick this, I would be grateful for any comments re missing words, spelling etc...._


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Apologies for the delay - RL was somewhat hectic....again Brit spelling and vernacular warning ahead...._

_**85 Albert Embankment – August 2009** _

Alex looked up in mild curiosity, one eyebrow raised at the sudden clink of glass and cutlery colliding as Moneypenny put down her lunch tray on the table with slightly more attitude than might be considered necessary. Her mentor (and increasingly, her friend) frowned in response and then collapsed in a heap on the bench across from her with a martyred sigh. Alex raised another eyebrow at this somewhat atypical show of frustration from Eve, who was usually a model of self-possession. Her friend simply glared back, almost rolling her eyes in annoyance.

“Something wrong?” 

Moneypenny pressed her lips together in irritation, her delicate features screwed up in a moue of pure frustration.

“Everything!!”

Rider cocked her head as she considered this. Being that the last time she had seen Eve had only been the night before when the older woman had insisted on dragging her mentee out for drinks with the mixed bag of Six agents and R&D staff that made up Moneypenny’s closest colleagues and everything had seemed fine then, Alex thought that “everything” might be a possible exaggeration. But, taking her cues from the fine stress lines bisecting the other woman’s forehead she wasn’t about to risk upsetting her by letting brutal logic derail whatever it was that Eve needed to vent about.

“And _everything_ is…?”

The other woman harrumphed in exasperation even as she started to explain.

“You know that I’ve been trying to engineer a transfer from Intelligence Analysis into Operations for ages, right?” 

Alex nodded cautiously. 

“And that a few weeks ago I finally got word that there might be the possibility if I could persuade Training to set me up with a Field Agent training syllabus?”  


Rider wordlessly agreed again. 

“Well, until this morning everything was on track. Training was going through a comparatively quiet patch so Featherstone had given them the okay to start me out on a modified Operative training program.” She waved a fork in emphasis even as she dug into her salad, prompting Alex to remember the rapidly cooling lasagna that she was neglecting. Hastily she dug back in to the plate of better than average pasta goodness as she waited for Eve to start talking again, while her mentor picked at her salad with a jaundiced air. 

“And then everything went completely pear shaped!”

Alex chewed thoughtfully on a mouthful of cheese sauce topped carbohydrate as she sought clarification with an interrogative wave of her fork and a raised eyebrow.

Moneypenny sighed again, totally losing interest in her barely touched lunch. “I asked Training today when I would be able to start, and they informed me that they had been issued with a whole host of new directives this morning, which meant that my training program, since it was non-mission critical, had been shelved until things calmed down again. And _that_ means, knowing my luck, that I will be lucky if I get to start training before I’m _ninety_.”

Alex paused in her determined assault on the food on her plate to fix Eve with a remonstrative look. “I somehow doubt that will be the case. As a department, Training is pretty efficient.” 

Eve muttered to herself and rolled her eyes before she grudgingly agreed. “But it _does_ mean that there’s going to be a substantial delay. And that I will have to _constantly_ be on Training’s case or otherwise it will never happen.”

Rider shrugged. “Well, you’re not exactly the shy and retiring type, so I don’t imagine that putting a little pressure on them will cause you any problems.” She frowned. “So what caused the disruption in the first place?”

Eve put her fork down and fixed the younger women with a faintly bemused look. “Didn’t you hear?”

Alex raised a long suffering eyebrow at her mentor. “Eve,” she said slowly. “If I had heard– would I be asking?”

“Fair enough. It’s just that you _always_ seem to know what’s going on.”

Rider acknowledged the point with an inclination of her chin. “Yes – but today I’ve been stuck with Madame Dubois for the majority of the morning and then I had Bomb disposal class and you know that neither of those environments encourages the use of mobile phones, for obvious reasons. So for once, I am slightly behind the curve.”

“Oooh – excellent!” Eve almost bounced in her seat at the rare opportunity to enlighten her mentee who seemed to have somehow created (despite how quiet she generally was), an exhaustive intelligence network within Six of her very own. Eve had no idea how she had accomplished it in the comparatively short period of time that Rider had been at the agency, but she had her suspicions that it might be something to do with the other woman’s tendency to hang around R&D all the time, or the pronounced strain of computer geek that surfaced every so often in the younger agent. 

While she was comparatively reserved, the fact remained that Rider unintentionally came close to fulfilling a number of the R&D geeks’ ideal when they dreamed of their fantasy woman. She was tall, athletic and blonde, lethally dangerous, gifted in the martial arts and extremely apt with a vast variety of edged weaponry and munitions. She was almost a living avatar from any of the shooter games that half of Q’s minions spent far too much time playing. However she combined all of that with a ruthlessly analytical brain and a genuine interest in, and fascination with, technology. And even the reticence of her personality only added an air of mystery which made even more fascinating to the juniors in Q branch. The final cap on it was her age and comparative junior status. Senior field agents and the members of the double 0 branch were often similar to Rider in their skill sets but few of those were either young or accessible and so the junior geeks preferred to maintain a healthy distance. But Rider, although quiet, was only intimidating if she wanted to be, and with the members of Q branch she had made a conscious effort to be, if not amiable, at least approachable. It had been a decision that had paid off in spades as there was no one as plugged into the internal doings of Six as its R&D and IT staff and without much effort on her part they had all started to provide her with regular updates as the organisation’s internal workings. So out of Moneypennny and Rider, it was usually Moneypenny waiting for an update and Eve relished the chance for the shoe to be on the other metaphorical foot for once.

She leaned in, conspiratorial. “Well, it seems that an operation went completely pear shaped yesterday in Kurdistan.”

Rider finished eating and shrugged. “It happens, unfortunately. But why would that cause Training to completely upend its procedures?”

Eve leaned in even further, unconsciously lowering her voice and Alex bit back a twitch of inappropriate amusement. If Moneypenny ever did manage to switch to the Operations track she was going to have to complete a hell of a lot of training in how to be unobtrusive because to the suspicious minds that haunted the Mess at Six her current attempts to seem inconspicuous were drawing more attention than she could have possibly realised.

“A senior field agent on the ground disobeyed the direct order of one of the double 0s and the double 0 ended up shot as a result.”

Alex blinked at that, genuinely taken aback. “What?” Her tone was sharper than she had intended and she caught the brief look of surprise on Eve’s face before she deliberately softened her voice. “Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting that.” She glanced down as she prodded the slowly cooling remains of her lunch with her fork, appetite abruptly fled, and tried to push down the small pulse of worry that was hovering in her gut. “Do you know which double 0 was hurt?”

Eve frowned at her, obviously puzzled by the change in her mentee’s demeanour, despite the fact that she clearly didn’t understand why the younger woman would be concerned about a nameless double 0 that Rider had never met. 

After all, Bond and Alex’s continuing training sessions (which had slowly morphed into semi-regular appointments), were, at Featherstone’s suggestion, private and not something she had mentioned to any of her peers, as the inherent brutality involved was not something that she or her trainer thought that any of her colleagues would understand or appreciate. But despite the familiarity that semi-regular exposure to Bond had given her, Rider didn’t really understand why she was concerned that the nameless double 0 might be Bond either, only that she was. Perhaps she was just reluctant to find a new sparring partner. Or maybe it was simply that far too many people she knew had been injured or killed around her over the last few years to the extent that she valued the interaction with anyone that she had known for long enough that they had begun to seem familiar. That was it. That was clearly the most reasonable excuse for the slight churning of her gut at the possibility that he might have been killed. Thankfully before she could indulge in further wool gathering Eve spoke up.

“It was 003, I think.”

Alex tried to disguise her instant relaxation at the name, but she thought that Moneypenny’s sharp eyes may have caught the immediate release of the tension in her shoulders, at least going by the narrow eyed contemplative look that the older woman levied her way.

“That’s unfortunate,” she deliberately kept her tone light and detached, hoping to alleviate her mentor’s suspicions. “Is it bad?”

Eve screwed up her face in commiseration. “Well, it’s certainly not good. Three bullets, one to the shoulder, one to the knee and one to the stomach.”

Despite her best intentions Alex winced at that, feeling a moment of sympathetic phantom pain as the narrow band of scar tissue on her chest, the only legacy left of the bullet that missed her heart by a matter of centimetres when she was only 14 pulsed and reminded her of its existence. She knew exactly what that must have felt like and her lips thinned as she calculated the unlikely possibility of the agent’s survival.

“Is he dead?”

“What?”

“003. Is he dead?” Again her tone was sharper than she intended and she smoothed out her expression from the frown she could feel pulling at the edges of her forehead before she alarmed Eve any further.

It didn’t stop the older woman from frowning at her, clearly confused by the intensity of her response. Alex could see the unspoken questions hovering on her mentor’s lips but thankfully after a considering pause Moneypenny seemed to decide to leave her curiosity unsatisfied. This time at least.

“No, not as yet. They managed to get to him on time and medivaced him to a secure trauma centre. But from the preliminary reports it’s unlikely that he’ll be fit to operate in the field again. In fact I bet he’ll be medically discharged from Six.”

Alex shuddered inwardly at the idea of that happening to her and poked moodily at her congealing pasta with her fork. “That’s horrible.” She frowned. “And this happened because a senior agent disobeyed a direct order in the field?”

Eve nodded and Alex winced, thinking about the consequences. “M is going to have his _head,_ ” she pronounced, her tone a mixture of slightly gloomy certainty laced with a ghoulish satisfaction. “And he’ll _deserve_ it.”

They both paused for a minute to contemplate the thought of being on the receiving end of M’s wrath and then mutually shuddered. It was really too horrific to think about. 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Enter.”

M’s clear voice carried through the thick opaque glass and steel door at John’s knock and Featherstone nodded politely to Samuels, who acted as a combination of M’s Private Secretary and was one of her Close Protection Officers when she left the building, as he passed the CPO by. 

The younger man nodded back, the corners of his mouth creasing into a small smile although John was only too aware that there was a SIG Sauer permanently clamped to the underside of the other man’s desk and another one hanging in his shoulder harness underneath that innocuous suit jacket. He was not only aware, he also approved, as after that debacle with Quantum and the realisation that Mitchell, one of M’s longest serving security personnel had been compromised, possibly for years, M had given Featherstone the job of overhauling her personal security arrangements. Accordingly, Samuels was one of Featherstone’s own – an ex-SBS swimmer canoeist who John had heard from his contacts was leaving the Forces and whom he had personally selected straight out of C squadron of SBS before he was even demobbed. 

But that didn’t mean that the other officer wouldn’t shoot him if Samuel’s thought that John was a threat to his Principal. Thankfully, that didn’t seem to be the case this time, and at Samuel’s nod Featherstone pushed open the door to M’s office and crossed the expanse of carpet to the chair in front of her desk that she indicated with a waved hand as she sat with her head and shoulders silhouetted against the glass of the window at her back, the Thames flowing far below them.

“John. Come to cause more havoc, have you?” The words were repressive but the tone was dryly amused and Featherstone indulged himself enough to allow the slightest of softening of the edges of his lips in response to his Boss’ barb.

“I would prefer to think of it as disruptive innovation, ma’am.”

The two veterans locked eye contact for a moment and then almost despite herself M let out a small dry chuckle and shook her head with subdued levity. “Well then. Sit down and explain yourself.”

It was a short briefing as M was fundamentally on board with the premise of Featherstone’s plan, and only had to give her consent to the finer details. To John’s immense relief she resisted the urge to drill right down into the minutiae of how the structure would have to be implemented, for once preferring to maintain a detached oversight and to leave the logistical details in Featherstone’s capable hands. However, what she _was_ interested in were the details of which field agents Featherstone intended to assign to each individual double 0. 

It couldn’t be said that M played favourites, as she was always scrupulously objective, but it was apparent to anyone familiar with the labyrinth hierarchy of Six that she took a greater interest in anything that affected the double 0 section than she did in the day to day operation of the rest of Six’s field agents. Part of that was due, no doubt, to sheer exposure. After all, double 0s were the agents who were sent out on the most sensitive and time critical of missions, those assignments where the target or goals actually had a determinable effect on UK foreign policy. As such, the agents chosen for the double 0s program were amongst the most talented and flexible of the overall pool of Six employees and were subject to a selection and training process that required M’s explicit signoff before their status was confirmed. Further, there were statistically only a handful of double 0 in rotation at any one time which made it far easier for M to become familiar with their individual personalities and capabilities. And she frequently briefed members of the section herself where an assignment was especially politically sensitive, increasing her familiarity with each of the agents’ strengths and weaknesses.

But Featherstone thought that it was slightly more complicated than that. Out of the individuals he had known who had held M’s position before her she was by far the most effective at the essential skill of balancing the demands of husbanding her resources with the requirement to maintain Six’s effectiveness. But one of the flip sides of that ability was her tendency to see people and her agents as pieces on a giant chessboard that she manipulated with a master’s skill. And her double 0s were her knights on that board, weapons that she cast where they were most effective, sent out to do her biding like direct reflections of her will, arrows from her bow. So when one of those arrows was injured, or was somehow prevented from operating at peak functionality, she wanted to know immediately. And when she made the decision to risk the destruction of one of those finely honed weapons in the pursuit of a goal she wished to know, on an almost purely cost-benefit analysis, whether it was worth it. Because of all things, she despised waste. 

Which explained her interest in Featherstone’s proposed personnel assignments. However, as John was just as (if not more) familiar with the various abilities and idiosyncrasies of the individual agents involved, the majority of the allocations that he suggested passed muster with nothing more than a nod, although M did suggest an alternative for one or two agents if the first draft did not proceed as smoothly as might be hoped. Accordingly, they worked through the roster of active double 0 agents swiftly until they were down to the last name on the list, left until the end not because of any alphabetical selection, but because John had known in advance that securing M’s permission for this particular allocation might require significantly more effort. Which is why he wasn’t surprised when she stopped and tapped an imperious fingertip on the innocent cursive that spelt out _Bond, James_ on the sheet before her.

“So….” She was clearly waiting for him to proceed, but for once he ignored her silent prodding and simply returned her inquisitive glance with a stonewall expression. After a momentary battle of wills she shook her head in begrudging amusement. 

“All right, John, you win this one, at least. Make your pitch.”

He bit back a smile and inclined his chin to show his appreciation of her willingness to consider his proposition. 

“Well, ma’am, as we are both aware, Bond holds what might be properly termed as a slightly _unique_ place within the double 0 section.”

“If you mean he’s a bloody disruptive influence, he certainly does,” M commented grumpily and then waved her hand at John in a simultaneous instruction to proceed and apology for the interruption.

“Indeed. But whether we like it or not, of the hierarchy that the section officially does not have, Bond is right up there at the top. And with 003, who was one of the few other double 0s that had a comparative level of experience, out of the game for at the very least the foreseeable future, the influence he has over the other double 0s is only likely to solidify.”

“Which would be a truly terrifying prospect if it wasn’t for the fact that the rest of the section are already aware that Bond has the political nous of the proverbial bull in the china shop,” M interrupted dryly and Featherstone was forced to glance down at the notes in his lap in order to hide his smile.

“True, ma’am. But it does have to be said, that while the other double 0s are understandably wary of Bond’s ability to create a maelstrom of chaos, they also do have a healthy respect for the man’s pure survival instinct. Which is why they tend to listen to him if he can be bothered to take a stand in relation to procedure in the field. Understandably, their collective opinion is that if Bond, who has managed to clock up more years as a double 0 than the rest of them, can be bothered to get off his politically lackadaisical arse, pardon the vernacular, ma’am, to register his opposition to something, well then it is probably worth listening to him.”

M sighed. “You have a point. For after all, God knows that he tends to run in the opposite direction, usually to somewhere hot and exceptionally violent whenever I have discussed the possibility with him of promoting him out of the field or giving him supervisory responsibility.”

“Indeed, ma’am. With greatest respect, I think you may have to let that one slide. Bond will never thrive in upper management. He just doesn’t have the personality.”

Momentarily distracted from the main focus of their conversation, M looked atypically fretful for a second. 

“I know,” she snapped waspishly and then shook her head in mild despair. “However, he’s getting older, even though he won’t admit it. And you and I know that there are only so times you can play the odds in the way he does before it all catches up with you. He’s done enough by far to justify promoting him out of the zone, and I don’t want him to die in the field, John. I just don’t.”

Her tone was unexpectedly vulnerable, almost confessional and for a moment the two veterans simply looked at each other, the ghosts of far too many friends and colleagues that had failed to beat the odds hanging between them. 

Featherstone hesitated and then offered a wry smile. “Well ma’am, just because Bond isn’t suited to riding a desk once he comes out of the field doesn’t mean we can’t find somewhere else for him to be useful. Leave it with me. I already have some ideas.”

M nodded, grateful for the brisk change of topic. “Good. Keep me updated. Now, back to your proposal.”

“Yes. As we were discussing, if Bond registers a significant objection to the partnership arrangements it’s going to be incrementally harder to persuade the rest of the section to fall in line. And as we both know, Bond has previously registered fairly vociferous objections to similar proposals before. He sees any attachment of standard field personnel to his missions as a hindrance, rather than as an asset. And admittedly, he often has a point. Due to his unique way of working and his sheer stamina very few of our personnel are actually capable of keeping up with him in the field, and the few that are, tend to be very senior, and perhaps rather more hidebound in relation to proper procedure than is ideal.”

“Or that he can stand, you mean.”

“Yes, ma’am. As we both know he tends to ditch the support we attach at the earliest possible opportunity and then chew and spit out the few that he can’t ditch. Which of course hasn’t exactly made him popular amongst the standard field agents.”

For a beat there was a glimmer of a smile hovering around the corners of M’s lips. She did so love anything that bashed the institutional pomposity out of any of Six’s senior rank and file. But then it vanished behind her customary mask of slightly irritated imperviousness. “True. So your solution?”

“Give him Rider.”

For a moment M thought that she’d misheard but a brief appraising glance at her Head of Training’s face confirmed that she hadn’t, the thin line of Featherstone’s lips set in an expression that M knew to her cost usually meant that John was determined to dig his heels in about an issue. And when he did that he was harder to shift than the proverbial mountain. 

She opened her mouth to issue an immediate veto and then paused as she considered. John wouldn’t have suggested something as outside normal parameters as handing a partly trained junior field agent over to be the guard dog of a lethal brute like Bond unless he had good reasons. And especially not a junior agent like Rider with all of her ability coupled with the myriad of issues that the girl hid behind her veneer of competence. Plus, M wasn’t unaware of just how protective Featherstone had become of his protégée. Whether it was Rider’s emotional youth, or the fact that she was both naturally so very talented and John’s first chance to mould an agent from scratch, but the ex-double 0 hovered over the girl like a proud eagle with one downy fledgling chick. From Rider’s perspective it probably only seemed like a distant concerned interest, but from anyone who knew Featherstone as well as M did, the signs of avuncular attachment were only too apparent. So for John to be willing to release his agent into Bond’s not so tender care there must be something significant going on. She leaned back in her chair as she considered, her steepled fingers tapping together in a restless tattoo. 

“Why?”

Featherstone glanced down at his files for a moment before he met her gaze, his expression as inscrutable as her own.

“A number of reasons.” 

He continued, before she could interrupt. “She’s new and I’ve worked with her enough to know that’s she’s inherently flexible. She hasn’t had the time to become hidebound by Six’s field protocols. She’s fast, has a huge amount of stamina and she’ll be able to physically keep up with him if she needs to. And she’s already been in enough dangerous situations that she’s almost bombproof.” He shook his head in rueful acknowledgement. 

“In fact, if there is a situation in the field that can dismantle that girl’s objectivity I’ve yet to game it out. And as well as that, it will good for her and it will allow us to assess whether she really is future double 0 material. After all, if anyone will be able to judge that, it’ll be Bond. And she’s been working with Bond already on an ongoing training program and so he’s familiar with her and her skill set. And that involvement has been on a purely voluntary basis by Bond. I asked him for assistance with a single training session but it was his initiative to keep the program going afterwards.”

M hadn’t been aware of that and she frowned. “Why?” She enquired sharply. “Because I’m not going to give permission for this experiment if it’s just one of Bond’s convoluted plans to get the girl into his bed.”

John shook his head. “That’s not his motive,” he reassured her. “I’m damned if I can work out exactly what his motive is, but I do know that I’ve been watching him very closely and he’s never once approached Rider from that angle.”

“Then why on _earth_ would he still be working with her? He’s not exactly the charitable type.”

Featherstone’s mouth twitched with suppressed amusement at the thread of exasperation that always coloured M’s tone whenever she was forced to deal with her most obstreperous agent.

“I think he likes the challenge,” he noted simply. At M’s thunderously raised eyebrow, prompt forecaster of storm clouds ahead, he hastened to explain. “As we both know, there are very few agents outside the double 0 section who can keep up with Bond on a one to one basis. And within the section most are not interested in sparring with him as he’s not exactly known for pulling his punches.”

“But Rider can?” There was a thread of incredulous disbelief in M’s voice as she tried to visualise her deadliest agent being bested by an 18 year old girl.

Once again there was that flicker of pride that flashed across Featherstone’s face before he could hide it even as he replied. “Yes, she can. Not all of the time, of course. In fact just now the odds are very much in Bond’s favour. But she’s catching up _fast_. And at the very least she can give him a more challenging work out than pretty much anyone else in our current ranks.”

“Hhmmm.” M rocked on her chair once or twice as she considered before she leaned forward, elbows on her desk to fix John’s face with that soul searching stare.  


“ _John_. Why do you want her to do this?”

“Because she _can_. Let Rider hunt on his heels for a bit. It’ll be good for both of them.” And then he added his master stroke with a wry, dryly amused smile. “And she’s not afraid of him.”

That last comment rocked M back in her chair again. _Rider wasn’t afraid of Bond._

It was a seldom voiced fact at Six, that the rest of the organisation considered the double 0s to be, at best, partly tamed sociopaths. And even within the double 0 ranks Bond was regarded as an outlier, colder and harder and more lethally effective than his cohorts. It hadn’t always been that way. Bond before Vesper Lynd’s death had been warmer, still prone to feats of outrageous violence, but possessed of a rough good humour that soothed his jagged edges and made him comparatively popular, enough that the other ranks had been prepared to overlook his extremes in the field and be willing to meet him for a drink whenever he was at leisure. 

But when Lynd died, and with the debacle with Quantum that followed shortly afterwards Bond had shut down and what had emerged from the chrysalis of violence and grief had been cold, hard and deadly, all of the previous warmth curtailed away, the man under the lethality no longer apparent, only the killer clear to see. And understandably that didn’t make him easy company. And although he had warmed again slowly in the years since, until those few he considered to be more than colleagues were occasionally privileged to be able to glimpse the deeply buried warmth and black humour that still lurked within, the damage had been done. To the rest of Six, he was the closest they had to an institutional bogeyman, M’s attack dog, sent out to cause mayhem and bring destruction on the UK’s enemies. But that wasn’t exactly who you wanted to join you for a drink after work. So apart from the other members of the section, and a few senior staff members who remembered Bond from before, he was left alone by his colleagues, who tended to tread lightly around him, showing the whites of their eyes as they did so, as though he was some kind of rabid beast who would savage them if he broke free from his self-inflicted chain. 

So for Rider to look up at him, unafraid, clad in the armour of her bravery and her ignorance of his history, even once she had first-hand understanding of exactly what he could do to her, must have been to Bond at the very least refreshing and at the most a bone deep relief. 

No wonder he kept coming back for more.

She took a deep breath and sighed. Hopefully this wouldn’t be one more of those impossible decisions that would come back to bite her.

“Fine. You have my permission. But John,” she warned. “The first sign you have of it going pear shaped, I want you to yank that girl out -do you hear me? I will not have her potential wasted if Bond decides to go off on one of his self-destructive rampages.”

Featherstone nodded. “Of course, ma’am. You have my word. I’ll keep a very close eye on the situation. After all, I’ve not spent all this time on her myself to see that effort wasted.”

“Good. Then see that you do. And keep me updated.”

“Ma’am.”

And with that Featherstone left, his mind already on his next task. Now, for the hard part. Persuading Bond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Please review! Any comment, nit picks etc you might have warmly welcomed...._


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Again, RL got away from me in the latter part of 2016! But here we are for your Christmas/Seasonal break pleasure...oh- and the reference to SRR relates to the Special Reconnaissance Regiment, a division of the UK Special Forces who are closely associated with the SAS/SBS and who are stationed down at Hereford, but who, almost uniquely for UK Special Forces also accept women in their ranks._
> 
>  
> 
> _As always Brit language and spelling reign supreme here, but please feel free to point out any mistakes, as I currently have no beta. And please comment and review!!_

**_85 Albert Embankment – August 2009_ **

No further details had come to Alex’s attention regarding the events in Kurdistan and she had shoved the incident to the back of her mind by the next morning. That afternoon saw her reporting to the small gym where she and 007 undertook their particularly brutal form of training, bouncing up and down on her toes with an almost masochistic eagerness. Bond was a bastard, right enough, but he was also an incredibly challenging opponent, possessed of speed, stamina, creativity and a fiendishly convoluted technical skillset. And he was also, she was coming to realise to her surprise, a surprisingly good _teacher_ when he could be bothered. Admittedly he probably would be a nightmare for anyone who couldn’t hold their own with him, but she didn’t have that problem and he seemed to take an almost craftsman like pleasure in helping her develop her own style in the peculiar balance between restraint and lethal violence that Featherstone was so keen that she foster. 

Overall, combined with Featherstone’s oversight, it was the best teaching experience in physical combat that she had experienced within Six since she had started with the agency. And more to be point (although Bond would have had to torture the admission out of her) it was _fun_. More fun even than her private sessions with Eddie, because those were deadly serious, with a focus on the deadly. Halestown was determined to keep her alive by making her the most lethal version of herself that she could be and so drove her remorselessly with that goal in mind. Featherstone and Bond had the opposite intention, to teach her to temper her natural tendency to self-protection with considered judgment and so her sessions with both of them were understandably somewhat more measured and consequently considerably less stressful. And there was just something about the smug superiority on Bond’s face that just _irritated_ her, which made those moments when they were sparring and she managed to gain the upper hand especially delicious. Plus she had a sneaking suspicion that Bond enjoyed their sessions almost as much as she did, as otherwise not even Featherstone’s blandishments would have persuaded the older agent, who was notorious for ignoring or evading orders that he didn’t agree with, to maintain their current schedule.

As usual she was early for their session, having checked that there hadn’t been any last minute changes due to 007 being unavailable for any one of a myriad of reasons. He strolled in five minutes late, and took in the latent irritation displayed by her narrowed eyes at his tardiness with poorly concealed amusement, the corners of his mouth pulled up in a sardonic smirk, ice blue eyes glinting with humour.

“Rider.”

“ _Sir._ ”

Bond’s mouth twitched again in amusement at the poorly disguised sarcasm in Rider’s oh so respectful greeting but he didn’t comment any further as they both warmed up and then worked their way through the respective drills, spars and corrections that Featherstone had ordered. They were deep into the program when they both simultaneously broke from their latest spar and turned to the only entrance to the room, alerted on an almost sub-conscious level to the presence of an intruder by the soft footfalls of someone approaching the closed door to the gym. A few seconds later Featherstone pushed open the door and slipped inside. He stopped just inside the entrance, slightly disconcerted to find himself the focus of two very similarly assessing stares, even though only one came from the agent with the official licence to kill. 

“007. Rider. Don’t let me keep you. Proceed.”

He waved a hand at them casually to emphasis his instruction, but he had a feeling from the sharp glances that they aimed at him before they resumed their spar that they weren’t fooled by his studied nonchalance. It wasn’t surprising as for once his calm exterior was concealing a surprising (and faintly ridiculous, considering) level of trepidation, mainly because he was aware that if he didn’t approach the situation he was about to instigate in the right fashion Bond was likely to refuse to co-operate out of sheer bloody mindedness. That would in turn make rolling out the scheme he had outlined to M expediently harder, due to 007’s unspoken position as senior agent within the 00 section. However, the flip side of that was that if he could get Bond to co-operate, the rest of the double 0s were likely to fall in line with only a few rumbles of complaint. So it behoved him to handle this particular encounter very carefully. 

With that in mind he waited until the end of Bond and Rider’s scheduled session, biting back a smile at Rider’s chagrin when she failed to win her final bout and landed on the floor with Bond’s knee firmly placed on her sternum and his calloused hand wrapped loosely around her neck. For a beat she simply glared at him from her recumbent position, body language almost crackling with frustration as Bond favoured her with a smirk exactly calculated to be excruciatingly annoying.  
Featherstone had to smother a chuckle at the waves of pure irritation pouring off his young protégée. Admittedly it was getting harder by the session for Bond to win the bouts that the two of them indulged in, but the older double 0 was still ahead on points and Featherstone could tell that it rankled Rider, who was used to winning these kinds of contests more often than not. But despite all of her native talent, trained skill and increasing familiarity with Bond’s eclectic style she still couldn’t always compensate for the nearly unbeatable package of experience, ingenuity and pure _sneakiness_ that Bond excelled in. Plus the fact that Bond was nearly always able to goad her to the very edge of losing her temper probably didn’t help much when it came to calmly predicting his moves. Which of course he knew, and which Featherstone thought was probably one of the reasons Bond so delighted in finding Rider’s weak points and poking at them.

The rest of it was just Bond being a shit, of course. Just because he had clearly decided that Rider was off limits for his usual dalliance didn’t mean that the double 0 wasn’t capable of utilising the young woman for his own amusement and his constant needling while they were training was simply that, like, Featherstone mused ruefully, a small boy pulling a small girl’s pigtails to see her react.

It frequently drove Rider to almost ballistic levels of snarling frustration and Featherstone wondered if she even realised that she allowed far more of her real emotions to show in this room with Bond than she did anywhere else within Six. Outside of this room her professional mask was becoming increasingly impermeable, which just made the crackling, spitting fury that she released at Bond within the confines of the gym even more unusual. However, that release was actually rather healthy and it was the only reason that Featherstone hadn’t had a quiet word with Bond about his conduct before now.

But enough. If he wanted to speak to Bond he had better intercede before the younger agent successfully carried out one of his habitual disappearing acts.

“007, Rider. That’s enough for today. Rider, I believe that you have an appointment with Davidson to discuss that upcoming operation in Algeria?”

Rider quickly disengaged herself from Bond’s loose hold and rolled to her feet in one smooth motion, casting a brief, fulminating look at the older agent as she did so, which he scrupulously ignored, although John caught the briefest twitch of amusement softening those thin lips when her back was turned. 

“Sir,” she nodded to him politely, and then favoured Bond with the merest inclination of her head. “007.”

The double 0’s lips twitched again as he lifted his chin to her in acknowledgement. “Rider. _Au revoir._ ”

She turned to exit the gym, but not before both men caught the edge of a sardonic eye roll clearly aimed at Bond. Amused, for a second Featherstone had to look away so as to retain his façade of inscrutable composure and when he glanced back Bond was regarding him with a faintly questioning expression, clearly aware that Featherstone had dismissed Rider in order to have a chance to speak privately with the younger man.

“007, do you have a minute? There’s something I would like to discuss with you.”

Clearly unsurprised by the request, the younger agent merely nodded his blue eyes steady and focused on Featherstone’s as he waited for the head of Training to articulate whatever it was that was making the older man so uncharacteristically hesitant. Bond already had a fair idea of what Featherstone might want to discuss, but he had enough respect for the older ex-double 0 to be willing to listen to his pitch even though (if this was what he thought it was) he had already determined that he was going to make his objections known.

“I’m not going to embarrass either of us by pretending that you don’t already have a decent idea of what this is about,” Featherstone paused for Bond to interject before continuing. “What happened to 003 in Kurdistan was more than slightly regrettable. Thankfully I understand that he’s stable now and that he’s being medivaced back to the UK in a few days. But it’s unlikely that he’ll be back in the field any time soon, if at all.”

There was the briefest of grimaces on Bond’s face at the news, but his expression soon smoothed out into his normal impenetrable mask of lazy good humour.

“That’s unfortunate. 003’s a good agent. And a good man. But I don’t really see how what happened to him is germane to the conversation that you are very carefully _not_ having with me, Featherstone.”

John sighed under his breath in exasperation. He should have known that Bond wouldn’t make this easy. “It has everything to do with it, Bond,” he snapped, suddenly irritated beyond measure at Bond’s habitual pig-headedness when it came to anything the younger agent didn’t want to do. “What happened to 003 should not have happened in the first place. And as we both know it’s not the first time that something similar has happened to a double 0 simply because the rest of the field agents aren’t familiar enough with the section and its agents to follow their orders without quibbling.”

Bond raised an eyebrow at Featherstone’s atypical display of emotion. “That may be the case, but I fail to see how assigning us _babysitters_ in the field is going to help matters. In my experience all that will do is add an additional level of confusion to scenarios that are fundamentally both complex and fluid. As just happened with 003. Or are you genuinely trying to maintain the fiction that a double 0 agent in the field is better off with backup that he can’t trust than operating independently?”

Featherstone glared at him. “No, I’m not. And that is exactly the point I am trying to make. Back up in the field that you can’t trust is incrementally worse than no back up at all. But the point is that you should be able to have back up in the field that you _can_ trust. Because as we both know, there are situations in the field that even a double 0 can’t handle without a few extra bodies.”

This time it was Bond’s turn to grimace as Featherstone’s point was inarguable. But that still didn’t mean he had to like it. Or even agree with it.

“Perhaps. But as our own M has previously stated, the best double 0 is one who doesn’t trust anyone, apart from themselves.”

John had to forcibly prevent himself from rolling his eyes at the younger agent’s bloody mindedness. 

“Well considering she signed off on the roll out of assigning permanent back up to double 0s in the field this morning she is clearly willing to be far more flexible on the point than you.”

Bond stiffened almost imperceptibly at that and Featherstone marked up the point scored as one in his column. The battle of wills between M and her most intractable double 0 agent was less of a private affair than Bond clearly liked to think it was. Personally John thought it was half of the reason M kept Bond around, despite his notorious disinclination to follow any of the rules that didn’t accord with his personal mores. Bond was M’s _momento mori_ , the whisperer in her ear that reminded her that she was but mortal, and that not all of heaven and earth would move to her will, the cliff against which she could dash herself whenever she felt she was on the verge of autocracy. Her humility in human form. And as a result of this she allowed Bond latitude in the field that wasn’t extended to any other agent in the Service. God knows that anyone else would have fired the younger agent long ago, especially after that debacle with blowing up that Embassy.  


But in exchange M was the one authority that Bond grudgingly adhered to, and even his systematic tugging at the leash she had put on him was half hearted at best. Both of them knew that if Bond wanted to he could disappear, untraceable, without any effort, but instead he remained, M’s personal bird of prey, held to her jesses and her wrist by ties that neither of them cared to subject to scrutiny, of which their regular battle of wits was only one strand in the cords between them.

“I see.”

Bond turned away from Featherstone, the line of his back rigid as he contemplated M’s unexpected concession. “And I suppose she’s made it a three line whip?” His tone was complex, irritation laced with frustration, but with the slightest hint of coiled resignation that only someone who knew Bond as well as Featherstone would have been able to hear. 

Featherstone pressed his lips together in his own frustration. He knew the double O well enough to recognise that Bond wasn’t conceding defeat. Instead the younger man was pretending to capitulate with the intention of withdrawing his co-operation in no doubt spectacular fashion at some pivotal moment when 007 would be guaranteed to do the greatest damage to Featherstone’s plan that he possibly could. And the only thing that would prevent Bond from doing so was if he could be persuaded to genuinely accept his backup. Which led Featherstone onto the next stage of his plan.

“She has.”

Bond turned back to face him, his face its normal inscrutable mask, those ice blue eyes seemingly lazy and unaffected. It was a pose of casual indifference which didn’t fool Featherstone for a moment. 

“So, I’m assuming you’re here to inform me of whichever cretin I’ll be required to shepherd then.” The older man could already see the wheels turning in Bond’s agile brain as he waited for the information, no doubt already making plans to ditch his nascent “partner” at the earliest possible opportunity. 

“Yes.”

Bond nodded, the corner of his mouth twisting up in a sardonic smirk. “So which poor bastard is sufficiently on your shit list to be lumbered with me? Because I’m sure that was a detail that they were all desperate to volunteer for.”

Featherstone raised an eyebrow. “You might be surprised. But no, with you M and I decided it might be a better idea to take a different tack. We all know that you are unlikely to work well with any one too hidebound so we went in the opposite direction. We want you to take Rider.”

“ _Rider?_ ” It was the first time in years that Featherstone had seen Bond genuinely startled into showing emotion, clear surprise momentarily passing across his face before his usual mask of sardonic calm snapped into place. There was a pause as Bond scanned Featherstone’s expression for clues as to his motivation and then gave into his urge to move as he considered what the older man had just said, pacing restlessly up and down the gym for a moment before he turned back. 

Inwardly John smiled. He didn’t doubt that Bond would imminently make his opinion known, but the fact that the younger man hadn’t knee jerk dismissed the motion meant that Bond was at least genuinely considering it. 

“Why?” Featherstone went to answer but Bond continued before he could. “Why on earth would you want to assign that girl, who is more of a protégée to you than anyone you’ve trained in _years_ , to someone like me?” The subtext was clear – even Bond acknowledged that he had a reputation of being a one man wrecking band within Six, with the fallout surrounding him often constituting the destruction of other agents’ careers. Bond shook his head, bemused. “By the way you are still hovering over her like she’s your one precious chick she clearly hasn’t done anything to deserve being allocated to me as a punishment detail, or as a way of conveniently washing her out of the Service, so what the fuck is going on?”

He was clearly genuinely unsure of the motivation behind Featherstone’s decision, which was a memory that the older man intended to treasure, mainly because of its scarcity value, as Bond seldom, if ever, allowed his uncertainties to show. But that very uncertainty demonstrated to Featherstone that Bond was genuinely curious as to what M and Featherstone had been thinking when they agreed to Rider’s allocation and that the younger man was perhaps still open to persuasion as to whether to take Rider on.

“It was my idea,” he offered. Bond nodded and waited for him to continue. “I went through the entire roster of active field agents looking for a match for a double 0 with your combination of skills, experience and,” he paused. “Personality.” Both of their lips twitched at that one, Bond acknowledging the hit with a certain sardonic amusement.

“For many of our people your objections hold a certain validity. They wouldn’t work well with you – either because they couldn’t physically keep up in the field, or they are too hidebound by protocol, or they lack the relevant experience. But Rider,” he paused, trying to encapsulate exactly why he’d thought this particular pairing would work in the first place. “She’s fit enough and fast enough to keep up with you physically in the field, you can’t deny that.” He waited for Bond to object, ready to argue the point, but the other agent simply tipped his head in acknowledgment and waited for Featherstone to carry on. Slightly surprised to receive no objection Featherstone continued. “She also has a solid basis of field experience from her previous service with Blunt’s illegal unit. It may not have been technically Six but they certainly ran ops at a high enough level that her experience there is valid when considering at her CV so far.” 

Unexpectedly Bond was still silently listening. “But at the same time she’s new enough to Six proper that she hasn’t had time to become hidebound by protocol. She’s still innately flexible, and she picks up technique bloody quickly.”

Bond frowned at him and waved a dismissive hand. “That’s all very well. And I can’t dispute any of it. But it still doesn’t explain why _you’d_ be willing to allocate Rider to _me_. So far all of the reasons you’ve mentioned work to my advantage, not to Rider’s.” He smirked, a little self mockingly. “Given my track record I wouldn’t exactly expect you to want to risk me corrupting one of your malleable baby agents.”

Featherstone raised an eyebrow in unspoken agreement, “Normally, I wouldn’t dispute that. But Rider,” he frowned. “Rider’s a special case. She’s not exactly a.. _standard_...recruit.” Bond inclined his head at that indisputable fact. Rider’s background was about as far from that of the general graduate trainee as could be imagined.

“Which has its advantages for her in that her skill levels are far in excess of what might be expected for someone of her age and rank. But it has disadvantages too, in that there are a number of people within Six who do or who will automatically resent her, for her youth or her abilities, not to mention the fact that she’s a very attractive girl.” Bond didn’t respond, but John could tell that he was listening far more intently than might have been obvious. “And yes, you’re right, I do keep more of an eye on Rider than I do the other trainees, because I’m concerned that she could become a target for the kind of petty minded rank and filers who will never be as good as her and who know it and who are consequently likely to take a great deal of pleasure in trying to undermine her, or in making her life within the Service unbearable. And Rider won’t stand for that for long. She’ll either react in some probably overly aggressive fashion the first time one of them tries to get her to do something that she’s not prepared to do, or if she gets disillusioned enough she’ll simply quit and god knows what she’ll do then, but I would hate to think of what an asset she could be to someone working against us.” 

He grimaced. “Actually, I have a fair idea what she’d do next. I’ve already had to warn Five away from sniffing around her more than once. If she resigns from Six they’ll have her in at Thames House or slipped into the SRR down at Hereford before I can blink twice. And it would be a bloody waste for us.” 

He fixed Bond with a steady grey eyed stare. “You might have a somewhat deserved reputation, Bond. But one thing you won’t do is either underestimate what Rider is capable of, or try and grind her down because you can’t handle the threat to your ego. And I know you enjoy working with her, as I couldn’t have continued to schedule her sessions with you if you didn’t want to be involved as you simply wouldn’t have turned up on an ongoing basis if you weren’t interested. So what I am offering you Bond, is the best possible option for you and for her. You get to train Rider for the field, so that she will support you exactly as you want to be supported. As long as you stay within the boundaries that you and I will agree on I won’t interfere with anything you want her to learn, or any experience you wish her to gain. She _will_ obey you in the field, because I’ll instruct her to do so. And as long as you don’t go too far I’ll allow you to shape her into your ideal of a perfect backup. In exchange Rider will gain invaluable experience in the field and get to work with someone who appreciates her abilities and will use them, and who won’t seek to destroy her confidence to boost their own ego. And who _won’t_ expect other non appropriate _services_ from her because she is young, female and beautiful such as that she’s not equipped to provide to other agents and should never be expected to.” His stare grew sharper. “Because you won’t be expecting those kind of services from Rider, will you Bond?”

It was almost a rhetorical question, but one edged with the kind of shallowly buried threat that made it clear to James that there was only one acceptable answer. He snorted in bleak amusement and shook his head in response.

“Don’t worry Featherstone. If I do decide to take Rider into the field you won’t have to worry about that particular issue with me. I’ve already agreed with M that Rider is off limits for my kind of dalliance and working with her in these sessions has made it even more clear to me...” he paused, trailing off as he considered whether he needed to explain to Featherstone how deeply damaged he’d come to realise that Rider was when it came to sex. He shook his head again, decisively. “Let’s just say that issue is not something you will have to worry about with me, at least,” he concluded his tone bleak, “You have my word.”

For a moment Featherstone stared at him as he tried to gauge the sincerity of Bond’s reply and then he gave a choppy nod, satisfied for the moment, at least. “Good.” 

Bond looked away into the middle distance for a moment as he considered. “It’s a three line whip from M?” 

At Featherstone’s nod the younger agent frowned, his mouth pressed together into a thin line in irritation. “I’ll think about it, that’s all I’m willing to do at this point,” he responded grudgingly, clearly still not happy, not that Featherstone had expected him to be.

John inclined his head in acknowledgement. Even that reluctant concession was better than he had expected. “Good. But I’ll need you to give me a response within 48 hours. As otherwise I’ll have to find someone else to attach Rider to and that will require quite a bit of thought and juggling of the scheduling that I’ve already prepared.” Bond turned his head to stare at him at that comment, and there was a sudden glint of what John could only describe as jealously in the other man’s ice blue eyes.

“Who were you thinking...” Bond waved a hand and stopped himself half way through his query as he shook his head. “Never mind. Forty eight hours you said?”  
John nodded. “Forty eight,” he confirmed.

“Right.” And with a final nod Bond was gone, stalking out of the room at speed, ignoring Featherstone’s steady gaze on his back. The older agent carefully held back his smile until the door had closed behind the younger man and then let his lips curl up. Well. That had gone better than he expected. Perhaps this might work out after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Please review! All comments gratefully received!!_


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

_Author's Note: As always, apologies for the delay caused by RL! In recompense I offer a 11k of update in (sort of) honour of Daniel Craig agreeing to sign on as Bond one more time._

_On a plot point - In Scorpia, the fifth Alex Rider book, Alex ends up at a Scorpia training camp, where he eventually is censured due to his reluctance to kill. However, as previously noted, "our" Alex is a more realistic and somewhat darker beast and the author's opinion is that by the time our Alex reached this point she would have at least one intentional death on her personal tally and a number of unintentional ones. Accordingly, it was the author's opinion that in order to survive an assassins' training camp our Alex would make "pragmatic" choices, even if those choices weren't exactly ethical. After all in fiction (and real life) ethics often are trumped by the immediacy of a possible bullet in the back of the head._

"Right." 

Featherstone looked across the desk to where Rider was perched in her usual chair, a picture of alert attentiveness, fairly vibrating with the excess energy that she hadn't had the chance to run off sufficiently that morning. "So as you are no doubt aware, M is implementing a policy that each double 0 will have a designated primary back up for the field, for when they require secondary support."

She nodded. Like every other agent she kept her ear to the ground with regard to the non-classified gossip and news that circulated Six and as that particular piece of news concerned the double 0 section it had of course made its way around the organisation at light speed.

"After discussion, it was determined that you would be a suitable participant for that program."

Rider sat bolt upright at that. She hadn't thought she would even be considered, as she hadn't really been at Six long enough. Featherstone correctly read her look of surprise and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a half smile.

"Normally we wouldn't be including you in this programme, as you haven't reached Senior Agent status yet. But when necessary there are exceptions to every rule, and your participation allows us a potential solution to an issue that could have become rather difficult."

She cocked her head, intensely curious now, her entire body a question mark. 

"In the past when we've considered implementing a similar programme we kept coming up against one major stumbling block. Bond. Who as you know, holds an unofficial position of considerable influence amongst the double 0s and who has steadfastly refused to contemplate having back a designated back up in the field on the basis that he considers them to be a hindrance, rather than a help."

She nodded. Bond had never being quiet about his opinion of this particular issue and it had come up in one of their short conversations as they threw each other around the gym.

"However this time, post the debacle in Kurdistan, M has decided to throw her considerable weight behind the implementation of the project." His mouth twitched again in subdued amusement. "And even Bond has learnt to think twice about crossing M when she does that. So he's agreed to consider having a designated back up, on a probationary basis."

Alex nodded again. This was all very interesting, but she still didn't see how it directly affected _her,_ , although she was sure that Featherstone would eventually get round to providing an explanation.

Featherstone raised an amused eyebrow at his protégée. Sometimes Rider could be ridiculously oblivious. "Rider, specifically Bond has agreed to consider you as his designated back up on a probationary basis."

Now it was the turn for _her_ eyebrows to shoot up as she sat bolt upright in her chair in shock. " _What?_ But Sir, I'm not qualified!"

Featherstone acknowledged the point with a nod. "Perhaps that would be the case if we were dealing with any other double 0. But we're dealing with _Bond_ here, Rider, and to be honest, the only qualification that really matters is if he thinks you might be up to the job and whether you actually are. And he has agreed that if you accompany him in the field he will co-operate with me to implement an appropriate training program for you, so that any deficiencies we note can be remedied. So really all that matters is whether you can persuade Bond that you are up for the job."

Rider sat back down in her chair, momentarily stunned into silence. Back up to Bond in the field? The whole concept was faintly terrifying. And at the same time, almost irresistibly attractive. More than anything what she wanted was to be bloody good at this career, her chosen field of espionage, and to that end she would take training from anyone willing to teach her. And Bond, for all his bloody mindedness was notorious for a reason, his successful missions the stuff of Six legend, his ability to survive situations that would have terminated a lesser agent ten times over the source of whispered conversations over drinks in many of the watering holes that Six employees tended to frequent. And so to have the chance to learn directly from him? That was priceless. But she had the distinct impression it might be painful too.

Featherstone watched the flickers of emotion and thought sweep over his young charge's expression. When Rider wasn't donning her habitual mask, as she seldom bothered to do around him any more, she was remarkably easy to read. He could see it all, curiosity, trepidation, trammelled enthusiasm and more than a smidgeon of self doubt. It was the last he felt he needed to address.

"Rider."

Her head raised from her contemplation of her knees when he spoke, fierce green eyes giving away her uncertainty. "Sir?"

"The only thing you can be concerned about is giving it your best shot. That's all you can do. After that it's up to Bond. And if he decides against you, it's no black mark on you, I promise. It will purely be on Bond." He smiled wryly at her. "And Bond being Bond, he's made it so that no one apart from the three of us and M at Six will ever know he was willing to concede enough to give you an audition, so you don't have to worry about this getting out. Just give it a go, that's all."

She nodded slowly. He was right, as he often was. All she could was give it a try. Reassured, she straightened.

"Yes Sir." She smiled impishly. "So, what does he want me to do for this audition of his, Sir? Scale Mount Everest perhaps? Rescue someone from an active volcano?" she snarked and watched with inward delight as her normally stoic instructor lapsed into a bout of soft chuckles at her cheek.

He recovered quickly though. "No, I don't think so." He sobered. "But what he's set out may be almost as difficult for you, although not as preposterous." She cocked her head, intrigued as he reached on to the desk for a note which he handed over. "Here. Bond wants you to meet him tomorrow afternoon at this location where he's arranged for you to play out a few scenarios of his choosing. Wear warm outdoor gear, take a change of clothes, I expect you'll get pretty messed up during whatever he chooses to have you do. And prepare equipment wise as if you were going on a solo operation, either extraction or information retrieval."

Alex nodded, serious again, as she took on board her instructions. "He's told me that it will only be one day, and that there is no risk of significant injury, but apart from that I don't know what he's planning. Now Rider," he fixed her with a focused stare, "two things. One, Bond can't _make_ you do anything. If anything he suggests makes you uncomfortable, refuse. _Understood?_ " He waited until she nodded before he continued. "And you may have to use some of your less orthodox skills, the ones that you didn't learn from Six to pass whatever test he has in mind. And if you do Bond will probably pick up that you didn't learn everything you know from Six and at that point he'll probably ask you about it. It will be up to you if you choose to tell him, but he's unlikely to consider you as a backup until he knows, because as we all know," he shrugged, "Bond has significant trust issues and consequently generally demands full disclosure."

She nodded again. "I understand, Sir. What time am I to report tomorrow?"

"Not until 16.00. I believe that a large part of what he wants you to do requires twilight at the very least, if not full dark, and obviously sunset isn't until after 21.00 these days. So take the rest of the day off tomorrow, get some rest and then head on out to the location tomorrow afternoon."

She stood, recognising the implicit dismissal, the note clutched in one hand. "Yes, Sir." She turned to go.

"And Rider?"

Her head swivelled back to him. "Sir?"

He smiled at her wryly. "Have fun." And with that slightly sarcastic rejoinder ringing in her ears she exited, already both dreading and intrigued by whatever Bond had cooked up for her. 

__________________________________________

 

It was a clear summer's afternoon, but perhaps a little overcast as Rider drew up on her motorcycle to the guard post at this carefully unidentified MOD site somewhere in the Home Counties and offered her credentials to the security guard at the gate, who had far too knowing eyes and attentiveness to his job to be the rent-a-copper that his uniform proclaimed him to be. She waited patiently, bike on idle as he disappeared into the guard house to check her ID and when he came back his look was marginally more friendly, although she could see the same thing in his eyes that she had to deal with from pretty much all of quasi-military men in her chosen field the first time they met her - what on earth was a girl like her doing hanging around soldiers? But she had been dealing with _that_ since she was 14, and on the scale of things that irritated her, looks like that barely even registered anymore. So with a nod and a polite smile she accepted both the issued security pass and his directions as to where she was to report to before she moved on. 

Once she was at the barracks (and it was clearly a barracks, she had seen enough of them to know), she parked her bike in what seemed like an unassigned spot, and toting her backpack made her way to the Reception as instructed.

The Sergeant on duty, and at least they weren't pretending that this wasn't a military installation once you got past the outer perimeter, seemed to be expecting her as he only raised his eyebrow slightly at her biking leathers and merely provided a space for her to change and leave her non operational kit before tasking what was clearly a paratrooper to escort her to wherever Bond was lurking.

She padded along beside her escort taking it all in, ignoring the curious looks that she received from the various male military personnel they passed with the ease of long practice. Her escort was either too shy to make conversation or he'd been instructed to keep quiet and she relished the rest from the usual deflective small talk she normally had to make in similar situations as she considered the site and the options that might be available to Bond with a rising sense of anticipation.

The trooper led her to what seemed to be an administration block and then left her with a polite "ma'am", at what seemed to be an unused classroom, through the glass insert of the door to which she could clearly see the black clad form of Bond lounging at the instructor's desk as she pushed open the door.

"Bond."

He smirked, just a little, those lazy ice blue eyes assessing her with their normal irritating insouciance, taking in her well broken in soft soled boots and slightly frayed outfit of black and grey (her "stealth clothes" as she had mentally labelled them a long time ago), without comment.

"Rider. Glad to see you made it in one piece." He swung up from his chair and she stepped back warily, automatically maintaining distance between them. His smile widened and she mentally kicked herself.

"Did Featherstone explain to you why you're here?"

She nodded sharply. He was _not_ going to get under her skin. Not today. 

"Yes. I understand that you are considering accepting the assignation of a primary back up for the field and you wanted to see if I had the skills for the position."

He considered her for a moment before he answered. "Not quite. I _know_ that you don't have the skills for the position." She bristled at the arrogant certainty in his voice but before she could respond he continued.

"Yet. What I want to find out is if you have the aptitude to do the job. Skills you can be taught. But aptitude is different."

He had a point there and she nodded grudgingly.

"So to that end Rider I've set up two tests for you, the details of which I'll brief you on in a minute. But for operational security purposes outside this room I will refer to you as Delta and you will refer to me as Alpha. Understood?"

She nodded. "Yes Alpha." She understood Op Sec only too well and she doubted that the rank and file here at this mysterious base had the clearance to know who the two of them were, or even that the double 0 section existed.

He looked at her for a second, those ice blue eyes cool and considered and then nodded sharply. "Good. Let's go." He made his way to the door and she followed, listening intently as he outlined the "tests" he had set up, a tide of excitement rising in her gut despite her best attempt at a cool exterior. This sounded like it might be _fun_.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Bond padded in to the observation post, set high to the side of the huddle of streets and houses that had been built a few years ago at this undisclosed base for UK Special Forces to train in. It was a rough replica of the kind of suburb you might find anywhere in the developing world, flat roofed houses crammed together higgledy-piggledy, with narrow stone and dirt paved winding streets full of potholes bisecting them, and the space above the streets festooned with electrical cables in no apparent order. It was totally foreign to the orderly nature of UK suburbs and that was the point, to get the operatives training here used to urban warfare in the conditions they were likely to face in Iraq, or the 'stan, or Syria, or any of the other conflict desolated parts of the world they were likely to end up operating in.

To Bond it was infinitely familiar as a facsimile of a thousand streets he'd wandered and fought in but more to the point it was the perfect environment to assess Rider's capabilities. If she could operate effectively here, it was more than likely that she would be able to be valuable to him in the field. If not, Bond mentally shrugged, he'd go back to Featherstone and report honestly that he had given her a shot, which should be sufficient to keep M off his back, for a while anyway.

There was only one other figure in the observation post, a tall taciturn man with the kind of face prematurely worn from too many years squinting in hot sun that was alien to his Anglo-Saxon genetics, and the rank flashes on his combats that marked him as a Lt-Colonel. 

"Bond."

Bond essayed the smallest of smiles in his direction. "Tomlinson." The two men exchanged the companionable nods of long term colleagues who felt no need to be effusive. They had known each other for a very long time after all, ever since James had still been in the SBS proper and John Tomlinson had been a very junior Captain in the SAS. Their paths had gone their separate ways but Bond had kept up with the career developments of those he had worked with over the years and he hadn't been surprised when Tomlinson had been promoted and put in charge of this training base, the man had always been surprisingly cunning in relation to strategy for such an otherwise straightforward character.

"So I suppose I have you to thank for the total disruption of my men's' training schedule?" Tomlinson enquired with a sardonic eyebrow lift. Bond just smirked in return leading his old colleague to unbend enough to indulge in a remarkably expressive eye roll of exasperation he would never have allowed any of his junior people to see.

"Don't worry, Johnny. It will be good for your lads. Teach them to expect the un-expected and all that useful bollocks."

The Lt-Colonel looked unconvinced. "You're putting one young woman, who hardly looks like she's legal, against my training Company, who have been working as Red Force in this environment for the last six weeks against considerably more experienced Blue Forces. It hardly seems fair."

Bond shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweats and rocked back and forth on his heels. "Fair for whom?" he responded with that familiar, infuriating smirk.

Tomlinson sighed. Bloody Bond. Guaranteed to cause chaos where ever he went. And today was clearly no exception. What the fuck was he playing at? "For the girl of course," he snapped back acerbically. "She'll be no match for my men. It'll be humiliating for her. And no challenge for them."

Bond outright grinned at that, that wolfish grin he only unleashed when his twisted sense of humour found something amusing that no one else understood and John felt a flicker of foreboding.

"You might be surprised," Bond muttered, almost under his breath, before he straightened, rubbing his hands together. "Well then, if that's what you think, why don't we make this interesting?"

Tomlinson eyed him suspiciously. "What do you mean?"

Bond shrugged. "Just a small bet. Twenty five quid that she makes it more than 5 minutes, both exercises. And a hundred quid that she'll achieve the target."

Tomlinson almost scoffed in disbelief. He'd caught a glimpse of the girl Bond had metaphorically dumped in the frying pan a few minutes ago as she had followed one of his men through the camp, and although she was clearly fit and athletic, she also looked absurdly young and she had been looking around her with the wide eyed stare of an ingénue, clearly unused to a military environment. So whatever she was it was clear that she wasn't a soldier. Plus there was no way that a girl that looked like that, a blonde fashion model lookalike, could be an operator and he knew _that_ with the kind of gut deep certainty that came from having spent far too many years in SF. 

So despite his misgivings at the cockiness of Bond's smirk he bit the bullet. "You're on. But your girl is unfortunately going to get slaughtered and she won't thank you for it."

Bond chuckled softly. "We'll see." He turned back to the observation window where twilight was starting to settle slowly over the site, the shadows deepening across the buildings and nodded in satisfaction. "Looks about right. If you wouldn't mind?" He nodded towards the tannoy system and after a brief review of his own Tomlinson nodded in agreement and leaned over to switch on the microphone and give the command for the exercise to commence.

++++++++++

Alex heard the cool authoritative tone of an unknown male ring out across the site, announcing the beginning of the exercise, but she hardly paid attention, because as far as she was concerned the exercise had begun the minute she came on site. 

When Bond had explained the two exercises to her she had outwardly maintained her usual impassivity but internally her pulse had quickened as the part of her that loved the hunt ( _and sometimes the kill_ ) roused itself from its day to day somnolence and pricked its ears in interest. This was, after all, a game that she'd been playing for a very long time, in fact as far back as she could remember.

There had been the endless repetitions of hide and seek with Ian, from when she could toddle, in retrospect an excellent way to teach her the skills she would need to hide effectively if anyone ever did breach their home's defences. And then when she was a little older he would expand the area they could "hide" in beyond their own territorial boundaries into the streets around wherever they were living and certain local parks. And then, as soon as he thought she was old enough there were days and weeks spent stalking game in the Scottish Highlands near the Bothy, the goal to get close enough to laser paint the deer, while seldom actually taking the shot. After all the goal of the exercise was the stalk, the stalk and the stealth necessary to hunt down the prey, not the kill itself. 

He painstakingly taught her how to move silently across different kinds of terrain, how to leave minimal trace behind and track others by what they had inadvertently left behind. And then when she was ten he had introduced her to the best fun ever - paintball, and the myriad options for faux urban warfare, usually in the dark, that it offered. 

She had loved it. And he had loved that she had loved it, leading to numerous weekends when the two of them would spend hours at various sites and events, sometimes on opposing teams, but often teaming up for maximum efficiency in destroying the opposition. Those days were some of the brightest memories of her time with Ian, the two of them wholly engaged in an activity that they both enjoyed immensely, Ian probably for the sheer frivolity of the activity, but Alex just loved it for reasons she didn't really understand at the time.

It wasn't until Venice that she really understood what that had been about, the buzz under her skin that had been fundamentally innocent, a kitten's enjoyment of the stalk and pounce morphed through trauma into something far, far bleaker, and infinitely more dangerous. Now her games became deadly serious, even Scorpia's training more like a deadly game of elimination than what most organisations would consider training, and one which she had discovered that she unexpectedly excelled at. Perhaps it was genetics, or at least in part, or a combination of that and all the training that Ian had quietly grafted onto her but to her trainers' pleasure they had discovered that she was very, very good at their games, the stalk at least, and latterly through necessity, the kill as well. Although she wasn't really in charge at all at those final lethal moments, not really herself, not really _Alex _, but rather that colder, so much more ruthless part of her she sometimes thought of simply as "Rider", the one that didn't flinch at violent death anymore, who came to the fore when she was physically in danger or there was the requirement to do something that the softer part of her, the teenager that was still "Alex" couldn't handle.__

__But here, today…this wasn't a "Rider" moment. No death here. Just challenge and competition and the deep, deep satisfaction of making all of those military men who so easily dismissed her as "just a girl" eat crow._ _

__Outside of her temporary refuge there was the soft crunch of combat boots on concrete and she pulled her legs in even closer to her torso as the outline of a pair of camo clad legs came across her eyelevel just outside her hidey hole. She didn't breath for a moment, but just as she had expected the passing Trooper didn't even seem to notice the hole in the base of the house wall that had left a small opening into the foundations of the building, one that most people would have assumed only a child could get through. She had counted on that. It was amazing how few people ever really looked at their surroundings and that, combined with her ability to contort her long limbs into incredibly small spaces had been a failing that she had been taking advantage of for years._ _

__The Trooper had passed on but she didn't move. Not yet. She needed for the coast to be clear, because her next move required a few unobserved minutes in order for her to make her way up the side of the building onto the complex's flat roof. Methodically she checked her kit with her fingertips as she waited, testing the thing tensile strength of the rappelling cord, rubbing her fingers over the rubberised points of the grappling hook that she would sling over the edge of the roof to gain her the leverage she would need to spider woman it up the rough concrete. She waited and eventually she heard the soft crackle of a radio communication from her unknown patrolman._ _

___"Red 10, are you secure?"_ __

____

There was the quiet noise of "Red 10" clearing his throat, and then the murmured reply. _"Confirm, Red HQ. Perimeter is secure. No current sign of hostile."_

_"Confirm Red 10. External perimeter is currently unbreached. Let's maintain that, so make your way to Zone 4 and hand off with Red 12."_

She heard Red 10's long suffering sigh and then the soft click as he thumbed his throat mike again and then the soft pad of his footsteps as he made his way down the alleyway and inside her hiding place she allowed a small smile to blossom across her features. Yes, their perimeter was secure, but she was _already inside their perimeter_ , so the point was moot. And more to the point, they had no idea that she was there. 

__She stretched carefully, loosening her cramped muscles as much as possible in the confined space she had curled herself into and cocked her head to listen for any return of footsteps that would indicate a further patrol. No. Nothing._ _

__Good. Time to cause some mayhem._ _

__Her smile widened. This was going to be fun. Even if it did lead to Bond asking questions that would be somewhat awkward to answer._ _

__+++++++_ _

__For Bond and Tomlinson it was a waiting game. Rider, or Delta as Tomlinson knew her, had a fairly simple mission brief for this, the first of her two exercises. All she had to do was get into the heavily guarded "HQ" of the mission and retrieve some sensitive information without getting caught, or if she did get caught, without staying caught._ _

__To compensate for her lack of normal electronic oversight and assistance she had a tablet with an electronic map of the territory, but apart from that her kit was her standard SIS training pistol that fired paint pellets, rather than bullets, a pair of night vision goggles and any other "toys" she brought to the party herself._ _

__As the site was only lit by the random spots of patchy deliberately inefficient spotlights and the occasional spill of light from behind the curtains of a house the observation deck was also of necessity dark, although both Tomlinson and Bond had night vision binoculars of their own and cameras across the site projected the ghostly black and green images of Tomlinson's men moving in ceaseless patrol, marked out on the site tracker by small blue lights. Delta as blue force had a bright blue tracker, but it was at her discretion when she switched it on (a small indulgence by Bond, as he knew _exactly_ how much the inability to track his potential protégée across the site would annoy Tomlinson) and as yet she hadn't bothered. So for the meantime the two senior officers were reduced to scanning the monitors for any sign of her, only one step more informed as to her potential whereabouts than Tomlinson's Red force._ _

__They waited in silence for ten minutes after the exercise officially started without seeing any movement. Beside him Bond could feel his old colleague starting to twitch and sure enough only another five minutes passed before the Lt-Colonel felt required to speak._ _

__"Perhaps she's begged off?"_ _

__Bond snorted. As if. The day Rider would back down that easily from a challenge James would start seriously scanning the sky for flying pigs. But then John didn't know the girl like he did._ _

__"I don't think so," he responded, deceptively mild._ _

__Tomlinson sighed with irritation. "Well, she's clearly not within the perimeter and my men have got this site locked up tighter than a fareyouwell, so she's clearly not going to get inside now. So exactly how long do you expect this to last?"_ _

__Bond raised an eyebrow at his colleague's evident frustration. "Patience," he murmured admonishingly. "And I expect the exercise to last for the agree two hour period."_ _

__Tomlinson frowned. "Hhhmm."_ _

__They waited in silence for another few minutes, the only movement the shifting patterns of red dots on the screen that marked the patrols of Red Force. And then suddenly, one of those red lights, well within Tomlinson's "locked up" perimeter, blinked out._ _

__Bond noticed immediately, but by the bored look on Tomlinson's face he hadn't so James didn't say anything. But then another red light, on the street adjacent to the original blinked out as well, and Bond felt his mouth twitch at the corners in an almost irrepressible smirk. Well, he mused, at the very least he was going to be up £25 after this little exercise._ _

__It took the rapid disappearance of lights three and four before Tomlinson noticed and then it was with a flurry of swearing as he realised that his Red Force had been efficiently reduced from twenty to sixteen and he hadn't even noticed._ _

__"What the fuck?" he turned and glared at Bond, who looked back at him, that damned bland, not my fault guvn'r expression on his face that John especially hated. Bond shrugged._ _

__"I told you she hadn't begged off," he pointed out._ _

__Tomlinson transferred his glare back to the screens only to swear again when another red light winked out. Bond bit back his smirk as he watched both the screens and the man frantically scrutinising them, silently amused. When after another five minutes a further light blinked out he raised an eyebrow in interest as he recognised what his young would-be-colleague was doing._ _

__"Interesting."_ _

__Tomlinson scowled at him. "What?"_ _

__Bond drifted over to the monitors and traced the pattern of the winked out lights, now marked by ghostly red outlines on the screens, with his fingers._ _

__"She's working inward, on a spiral. See?"_ _

__Tomlinson bit back whatever retort he had been about to make and nodded curtly. "Yes. Not that it makes any difference to my men, as I can't exactly tell them myself and they don't seem to have noticed yet!"_ _

__Bond raised an eyebrow. "By the look of it, and the lack of chatter on the radios she's taking them out by sentry removal. So I doubt she allowed any of them the chance to report in before she removed them from play." Unspoken was how the hell Rider knew about "sentry removal" which was a polite euphemism for the kind of close quarters wet work necessary to permanently remove a sentry from action, in the first place. It wasn't exactly the kind of skill a well brought up girl from Chelsea had in her repertoire and Six certainly didn't teach it to new recruits. But he wasn't about to disclose that kind of information to Tomlinson. The less he knew about Rider the better._ _

__"Well," Tomlinson almost snarled. "I still expected better. They'd better expect a fairly detailed debriefing post this exercise." He shook his head in frustration. "Allowing a teenage girl to get the drop on them? We'll never live this one down."_ _

__"She's not exactly a normal teenage girl," Bond pointed out wryly._ _

__Tomlinson snorted. "Perhaps. But that's no excuse."_ _

__Bond shrugged. He wasn't about to enlighten his old colleague as to just how unusual Rider was, so if Tomlinson chose to blame his men's lack of awareness on their failure to bring her in that was their problem._ _

__They watched in respectively amused and frustrated silence for a few more minutes, during which another light winked off, then another. After the second Tomlinson sighed gustily. "Right. Clearly you've fed me a ringer, Bond. But even with a skill level a lot higher than I assumed, she shouldn't be able to get the drop on my men so easily. What _is_ she doing?"_ _

__Bond shrugged a little. "I have no idea," he admitted easily. "But why don't we find out?"_ _

__Tomlinson frowned at him. "How?"_ _

__Bond shook his head at the other man's obtuseness. "Well, she's clearly working inwards in a circular pattern," he pointed out, in the tone of a man stating the patently obvious. "So why don't we activate the cameras on the buildings further on in that pattern and then wait?"_ _

__John stared at him for a beat and then shook his head in self disgust. "Of course. I'm clearly not thinking today. Bring them up."_ _

__It only took a moment of manipulation and then on two of the screens the ghostly outline of a darkened street through night vision cameras appeared. Two of Tomlinson's Red company were patrolling, weapons held ready and heads slowly moving back and forth as they maintained a constant scan of their surroundings. So clearly whatever was going on it couldn't be blamed on a lack of attentiveness by Tomlinson's people._ _

__Five minutes passed, then ten. And then the two men split in order to effectively cover the respective ends of their patrolled area, one passing outside the camera range. The two observers watched silently and then Bond raised an eyebrow and Tomlinson swore viciously as the light representing the absent soldier disappeared to be replaced by the ghostly red after outline that indicated a casualty._ _

__Genuinely curious now as to how she was managing it, James kept his eyes fixed on the screen, following the movement of the lone patrolman who was starting to realise that something was wrong when his compatriot didn't answer the radio. They watched the man's body language change, become rapidly more defensive as he became aware of just how exposed he was. He glanced around and then found an appropriate piece of wall where he could wedge himself into and then at the very least protect his back.  
__

__For a few minutes there was only silence, silence and the only movement in the street the slow shift of the patrolman's head as he scanned his surroundings, his gun shifting to follow the ceaseless movement of his eyes. But then, suddenly there was a flash of movement _above_ the lone patrolman and Rider appeared, dangling like a circus acrobat suspended upside down off the rampart of the building, her long body stretched out and her feet curled around the thin rope that held her there. Before either the observers or the oblivious patrolman could react, she had lowered herself down to just above the patrolman's head and one camo covered hand reached out to clamp itself over her "victim's" mouth as her other hand simultaneously "sliced" his unprotected throat with her plastic knife, leaving the dark slash of paint across the Trooper's jugular to illustrate where the kill would have been. The patrolman leapt in sheer blind surprise but her hand firmly over his mouth prevented any outcry until he realised that he was "dead" and nodded his begrudging acceptance of his status. Then she removed her hand, muttered something in the young man's ear that coaxed a small reluctant smile, pressed something at her waist and just as silently as she had appeared some unseen hoist spooled her back up the building until she flipped herself over the ramparts again and disappeared as silently as she had come._ _

__"What the fuck?!!" Tomlinson exploded in disbelief at what he had just seen. Bond couldn't help it, he laughed, long and low and quiet and then shook his head in reluctant admiration even as Tomlinson continued to swear and glare at the monitor and the now "dead" patrolman who had graduated to sitting on the ground, the rules of the game preventing him from leaving the spot where he "died" before the time allotted for the exercise was over._ _

__"Ah, Delta." Bond murmured to himself and shook his head again, still highly diverted. "You never cease to surprise me."_ _

__Tomlinson turned a fulminating glare on Bond and stabbed a finger in his direction. "You! What did you bring me, Bond?" Without waiting for an answer he charged on. "That girl's not a soldier! She's a bloody assassin!"_ _

__Bond smiled enigmatically. Tomlinson could think what he liked. What mattered was that Rider was showing him exactly what he needed to see, ruthlessness, pragmatism, adaptability and the ability to practically problem solve. Other skills he could teach her, or have her taught. But without those underlying characteristics she would be next to useless to him in the field. But he did want to find out exactly how she gained her rather unique skill set before he was prepared to have her at his back. It would all depend then, on the next exercise and what she was willing to tell him afterwards._ _

__For the next twenty minutes the two men watched on the monitors and the cameras as Rider made her steady, methodical way to the HQ of the exercise, fake "dispatching" Tomlinson's men one at a time as she slipped from roof to roof and from roof to ground. The patrolmen never really had a chance, not used to looking up as well as around but also not having the skill set to deal with an adversary, who was truthfully acting far more like an assassin than a soldier._ _

__Eventually if it came down to two men in the headquarters proper and there she didn't even bother to try and directly engage, instead simply slipped one of Q's toys through an appropriate window, a small grenade like canister that issued a deeply unpleasant although non toxic gas that would lead to spasmodic vomiting if you were exposed to for more than a minute or two. Well, at least _Bond_ realised from the camera feed what she had just exposed the last of Red Troop to, although he was amused by her initiative in having liberated something that wasn't exactly standard field issue from Q Department's vice like clutches. Tomlinson was far more concerned that she had actually exposed him men to something genuinely dangerous, especially when the two remaining defending force stumbled desperately out of HQ into the street and immediately started to vomit at their respective stretches of supporting wall. It was only Bond's unperturbed expression that stopped him from escalating from concern to action. Instead he held his peace and watched grumpily as that teenage impossibility slipped into the now empty HQ, her breathing mask leaving her unaffected by the lingering traces of gas, retrieved the information that was the focus of the exercise and then vanished off into the night without either of Tomlinson's two "surviving" men being in any shape to follow her._ _

__The exercise wasn't due to finish for another 30 minutes, but as Rider had systematically destroyed the defending force on her path to HQ there was no one left to oppose her and so when the cameras showed her lounging against a wall at the "extraction" point only 10 minutes later, Bond didn't see any reason to wait until the official siren sounded to indicate the end of the game before going to meet her._ _

__When he reached her she straightened to something approximating attention, but there was still an ineffable air of…he wouldn't call it smugness, just satisfaction, hanging around her in a cloud. He supposed it was justified as Tomlinson's attitude had been only too typical of the attitudes of the rest of the Troopers that he had overheard discussing his young colleague, and Rider would have been only too aware of how the men had categorised her. A bimbo, a waste of time, a distraction. So it was no wonder that she was feeling a little satisfied that she had confounded their expectations._ _

__But he wasn't about to let her rest on her laurels for too long._ _

__"That was….acceptable, Delta. But next time let's see if you can focus on the evasion aspect of the exercise rather than simply terminating everyone in your way," he commented dryly amused. She narrowed her eyes at him but didn't comment, although he could see from the thin press of her lips how much the restraint cost her._ _

__"So next exercise. In this one your job is to do what you would be expected to do in the field, namely watch my back. So, our objective here is……" he explained it all to her, and waited for her nod before they made their way to the starting point. Unlike the other exercise there would be no opportunity for the two of them to breach the perimeter in advance of the start of the exercise, but once the siren had blown they were free to do what they liked in order to advance Bond's objective. Rider's objective was to keep Bond "alive" and uncaptured in order to do so._ _

__+++++++++++_ _

__It was an objective she fulfilled admirably over the next hour and a quarter. Admittedly there were rough moments due to Rider's unfamiliarity with his methods and the various hand signals he used to direct their mutual movements. But she made up for it with her general alertness, her hyper sensitivity to threat and the amazing accuracy of her shooting, even when the gun was loaded with paint pellets. It was perhaps a little uncharitable of Bond to think in dog metaphors, but it really was like having a half trained guard dog running at his heels, basically useful but still in need of further refinement in order to really shine in its role. But just the way she paid attention, the way she moved, the sheer commitment and ruthlessness she brought to the role was evidence enough for him, that if he was forced by M to suffer backup in the field, Rider could be useful._ _

__But there were still a few more issues he had to bottom out before he was comfortable._ _

__He waited until the exercise had finished, slightly less "bloodily" than when she'd ploughed her fake deadly furrow through the mass of the Troopers, but still with a significant body count amongst the soldiers. The two of them made their way back to the entrance to the exercise area in silence although Bond noticed Rider casting wary looks at the chunk of Red Force who were hovering just outside hearing distance and casting fulminating looks at her. They were _pissed_ , not just because they'd been beaten, but because they'd been beaten by a lone individual and a girl at that. And the looks they were giving her were very familiar from numerous ugly situations that she had dealt with over the last five years, they wanted payback, and they weren't too fussy what form that it took._ _

"Delta," Bond's voice dragged her attention away from that threatening crowd and she raised an enquiring eyebrow as she focused back on him.  


"Yes?" 

__

__"Two exercises down, Delta. But before we go any further I want to know exactly where you picked up the skill set you demonstrated in exercise one. Because it certainly wasn't in any Six sanctioned training."_ _

__She looked at him and he looked back, the expression of lazy detachment on his face not fooling her for a second. For a moment she considered trying to dissemble, to pass off her rather unique skill set as something Ian had taught her or that she had picked up through the aegis of her job, which she had in a rather roundabout way. But then she saw the hard glint in those ice blue eyes and she realised that lying on this issue might be the deal breaker that Featherstone had warned her could be the case. Because Bond was a paranoid bastard, with some justification and there was little chance that he would be willing to consider her at his back if he wasn't satisfied as to her veracity. So those were her choices, to lie, and lose any chance of working with him in the field, to prevaricate, and hope he wouldn't call her on it (unlikely). Or to sacrifice a part of her precious privacy on the altar of his paranoia, admit the truth and hope that being honest in this instance wouldn't have consequences that she would have to suffer for._ _

__There was only one truly logical choice if she wanted this relationship to work._ _

__So. Time to roll the dice._ _

__She took a breath and looked up at him, finding a point over his left shoulder to fix her gaze on and spoke as dispassionately as she could, trying to ignore the immediacy of the memories as they arose as she explained._ _

__"When I was 15 it was brought to my attention that my biological father, John Rider had been an agent of Scorpia." She noticed Bond's eyes narrow at that little tip bit, but he didn't interrupt. "In an attempt to discover what had happened to him and my mother I assigned myself to Scorpia and managed to convince them of my bona fides. As a result I was sent to their training school in Venice. It was not," she took a deep breath, the sense memory of those days so vivid that she could almost taste the copper in her mouth from her own blood as her body recalled the slaps across the face that accompanied the most trivial instruction and the over whelming fear that any moment she would be one of the trainees forcibly "retired" with a gunshot to the back of the head. "A programme that tolerated failure."_ _

__She took a deep breath, and exhaled, trying to purge her body of the lingering gut level fear that had plagued every day of those weeks in Venice. "It was at Scorpia that I learned how to do what you saw today. The rest of the operation is code word classified, but if you feel you need to have sight of it before you can make your decision Featherstone has asked that you make the request to have the file released to him and he will clear it with M."_ _

__Bond's gaze sharpened at that. "M knows?"_ _

__Rider snorted. "M knows everything." She shrugged. "Do you think there was any other eventuality by which she would have permitted me to work for her?"_ _

__Bond nodded slowly at that. If there was anyone more paranoid than him it was M, and there was no way their mutual boss would have allowed anyone upon whom she hadn't undertaken a forensic level security check to work for Six in Rider's capacity. Especially after the debacle of the discovery of Spectre's infiltration of M's closest security a few years ago._ _

__"I see." And he did. For a moment he just looked at her and she kept her gaze on that elusive patch of sky over his right shoulder, not comfortable meeting those all too knowing eyes lest they see exactly how badly the experience with Scorpia had affected her, both mentally and physically. If he pushed her on the details she wasn't too sure how she would handle it, as even this level of disclosure regarding her training there was bringing to the surface memories she desperately wanted to forget. For Scorpia was the first place where she'd learned to kill in cold blood, learned how it felt to scope a target at a distance and coolly put a bullet in their head, or even worse to look down at a man begging for his life and pull the trigger. Scorpia was where as a matter of self preservation _Rider_ finally took over in the field from Alex, an unconscious choice that somehow helped her to maintain the necessary detachment to function in a literal life or death environment where Alex wouldn't have lasted more than a day._ _

__For a few minutes they stood there in silence in the dimness of the square, lit only by the arc lights breaking the darkness.. She could feel his eyes on her as Bond searched her expression, she wasn't too sure what for, but whatever he was looking for he seemed to find it as after maybe five minutes he cleared his throat, drawing her attention back to his face._ _

__"Right. Getting back to today." He smiled and she felt her eyes widen despite her best attempts at impassivity. She knew that smile. That was his I'm-going-to-be-an-evil-bastard smile and she'd already learned to be wary of it. It was the smile he gave her just before he unleashed something totally unexpected in the practice room, that usually resulted in spectacular bruises for her. So to see it now….she tensed in anticipation._ _

__"I know that I originally said two exercises, but I think," he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I think that it’s clear from your response that two exercises wasn't really enough to _really_ test your capabilities. So I think one last task," he smirked at her as her eyes widened in horror, " just to get the blood running. So," he cast a glance at the bunch of squaddies that were still milling around, and glaring at her with looks that promised painful retaliation for their humiliation. "The lads' Boss and I have discussed it, and we think it would be good for inter service co-operation if the lads have one last chance to even the score between Six and themselves." His smirk widened. "So let's see exactly how good you are at escape and evade." He held up a finger. "One hour, Delta, one hour. And then I want you back here. Admittedly the lads have a slightly different brief. They have an hour to bring you in and what ever resources they want to do so." His smirk morphed into a grin. "They have promised to leave you _mostly_ in one piece, but I wouldn't count on their restraint." He looked at his watch. "I've agreed a five minute head start, so on my mark I would suggest you get going. _Mark!_ " _ _

__She glared at him even as she started to move and he chuckled at her indignation, lowering his voice until only she could hear it. "So, run Rider. _Run_!" _ _

__And then his chuckle blossomed into full blown quiet laughter as she snarled at him, that lovely face a mask of irritation even as she wheeled and bolted like a deer into the darkness. Behind him the pack of Troopers bayed like hounds at their quarry escaping and milled around waiting for Bond's signal even as they strained for a sight of her fleeing form in the darkness. And Bond just laughed to himself. After all, he had promised himself, if he was going to do this, he was going to do this his way, and he might as well get some entertainment out of the process while he did so._ _

__++++++++++++++++++++++_ _

__It was just under an hour later that she stumbled back into the same square she'd fled from, to find him waiting. He'd tracked her flight through the camp using the tracker she'd never bothered to disable and the chaos she'd left in her wake. She made it, made it back in one piece, which was more than you could say for the squad of Troopers sent to capture her, a number of whom who had managed to trap her into close quarters and had subsequently suffered the consequences. But she wasn't exactly unscathed herself, covered in mud and dirt, her blond hair spilling in strands out of her French braid, her top ripped where someone had tried to grab her and she had had to fight extremely hard against her own trained reflexes to simply break her assailant's grip and not break his arm. And she was tired and hungry and generally pissed off. And her attitude wasn't helped by the shit eating smirk on Bond's face as he waited for her, his pristine outfit and general air of well fed relaxation just bringing into sharp contrast how horribly uncomfortable she felt._ _

__He surveyed her disheveled state with clear amusement and then moved closer to her, closer than she was comfortable with her adrenaline still heightened, watching with laughter prevalent in those sharp ice blue eyes as she shifted from foot to foot to alleviate the urge to step back from him. He was too close, within her strike zone and her threat honed senses were screaming at her to move away._ _

__But he ignored the obvious signs of her discomfort and moved further into her personal space until she had to raise her chin to hold his gaze, still standing at what was essentially parade rest, hands clasped behind her back, legs apart. He advanced even closer and he could see the tell-tale tension in her muscles as her fight or flight instincts rocketed at his proximity, although with Rider those instincts were far more attuned to fight than flight. There was less than a foot between them now and he could see by the narrowing of her eyes that he was really starting to push her buttons, but she didn’t retreat. He didn’t think she even had it in her to retreat, not even the instinctive step back that most people would take when someone as clearly physically threatening as himself moved into their personal bubble. Instead she just watched him advance with slitted eyes, chin tipped up._ _

__He looked down at her for a moment, assessing and then reached out to take that pointed chin in a firm grip between his thumb and forefingers, holding her gaze on his._ _

__She stiffened even further in surprise and he could feel the quiver in the flesh that he was holding as she fought the urge to yank her face away from his grip and simultaneously punch him in the face for his temerity. But lamping him one wouldn’t assist her case here, and she was disinclined to give the sarcastic bastard the satisfaction of knowing just how badly he affected her. So she stood still and let him hold her face, even though every instinct was screaming at her to retreat to a tactically safe difference as soon as possible._ _

__Bond looked down at her, that deceptively beautiful face, with its high cheekbones, blazing with youth and vitality, a disassembling cover for the ruthless assassin that he could see lurking within. He could see the tightness of her muscles as she fought the instinct to rip herself away from his fingers and smirked inwardly. Her expression was a mask of control but she couldn’t help the feral glitter in those narrowed green eyes, which glimmered with left over adrenaline and aggression from the faux killing spree she had completed that afternoon and he inwardly chuckled to himself at the heat of the glare she was aiming at him. If Rider's eyes were laser beams he would be incinerated by now._ _

__For a minute they just stared at each other, green eyes into blue, and then Bond broke the stand-off between them._ _

__“Maybe you’ll do, infant.”_ _

__One side of Rider’s upper lip curled in a soundless snarl, flashing the white point of her canine underneath and those green eyes narrowed further until they were almost slits, promising retribution._ _

“Let’s see you try to keep up, _old man_.” 

__With a smirk, Bond released his hold on her face and stepped back to a prudent distance. If he had to do this, he’d do it his way. And he might as well entertain himself while he did so, although he doubted whether Rider would find the whole process as amusing as he would. But she would benefit from it overall and at least it would finally get M and Featherstone off his back, and Rider would undoubtedly suck it up and deal, as she had with so many other events in her young life._ _

__“Right. I’m prepared to give you a trial. Think of it as a probationary period.”_ _

__“How will I know when it’s ended?” Her tone was detached, almost bored, but Bond wasn’t fooled by her air of ennui, noticing the slight flag of colour skimming the top of those high cheekbones and the brightness of her eyes._ _

__“I’ll tell you,” he retorted, quellingly. She held his gaze for a second longer and then nodded and looked away, conceding this match to him at least, but never the war. She glanced back after a moment._ _

__“When do I start?”_ _

__Bond looked her over objectively, seeing the dirt on her clothes, the mud and camo cream on her face and the dishevelled hair as if for the first time._ _

__“Tomorrow. I’ll meet you at 13.00 in the Mess to go through the additional training I expect you to complete before I’ll accept you working for me in the field. Understood?”_ _

__She mentally worked through her schedule for the following day and nodded choppily, even as she internally quailed at the idea of yet more training shoehorned into her already full timetable. But she wasn’t prepared to risk rupturing their fragile détente by arguing with him so she accepted his dictate, for now at least._ _

__“Good.” He turned to leave, and then paused to throw her a head to toe look over his shoulder. “Oh, and Rider?”_ _

__“Yes?”_ _

__He lazily tracked her black clad form from head to toe and she flushed with irritation under his amused scrutiny, the urge to just punch him rearing its head again.  
__

__“You might want to get cleaned up.” He shrugged, smirking even wider, leaving her acutely aware of the mud on her face and clothes and the dried sweat crusting her body under her clothes from her night of exertion. She flushed even harder as he grinned at her._ _

__“Just a suggestion,” he called as he walked away and she glared at his retreating back._ _

__

_Bastard._

__+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++_ _

__As always, she arrived 5 minutes in advance for their appointment at the Mess, and as seemed habitual, he sauntered in 5 minutes post their scheduled time, just late enough for her to give him a narrow eyed look of faint disapproval. She had absorbed enough of the scuttle butt that followed Bond around Six like a miasma by now to know of his naval officer background and that was before he had switched to the even more demanding shadow world of UK special forces. So it was clear that for a large percentage of his life he would have had to be in the habit of turning up on time for his appointments and she sometimes felt that his consistent lateness for any event at Six was a form of subtle mockery, a discreet two fingered salute to the quasi-military nature of the organisation he had ended up in. And with her own background, growing up in a house where punctuality was considerably more important than cleanliness or godliness it was one of those personal peccadillos of his that was guaranteed to drive her quite, quite, insane. But Bond was senior to her, and more importantly, Featherstone's voice ringing quietly in her ears as he emphasised the point, he could be incredibly useful to her, and she knew well enough that he held all the cards in their nascent professional relationship. So she kept her mouth shut on the cutting comment on his tardiness that she wanted to make and instead merely raised a sardonic eyebrow as he slid into the other banquette seat across from her, cup of coffee already in hand._ _

__"Rider,"_ _

__" _Sir,_ " she acknowledged, biting out the courtesy. His mouth twitched in suppressed amusement. She really knew how to express a wealth of irritated emotion in just a few syllables. Casually he sipped at his coffee as he looked her over, far more analytically and less mockingly than he normally did and she felt the hair rise on the back of her neck at the blatant assessment. Then he put his coffee down and leaned forward, elbows resting on the table as he leaned his chin on his clasped fists._ _

__"Right." She sat up straight at the change in his tone from his normal lazy drawl. This was Bond in his more serious mode, someone she had seldom seen but knew enough to pay attention to, even if actually respecting him was pushing it._ _

__"As I said to you yesterday, I'm willing to grant you a probationary period as my assigned secondary in the field." He held up a restraining finger as she almost vibrated in her seat with eagerness at his pronouncement. "This arrangement is contingent on a number of factors. Firstly, you will train, using a syllabus agreed between myself and Featherstone. You will achieve adequate standards in those areas that I request that you train in, and whether you are adequate in those areas will be assessed by me, or those that I designate, alone. Understood?"_ _

__She nodded and he continued._ _

__"And in the field, you will obey my orders without question." She frowned and made as if to protest, but he cut her off with a slice of his hand. "That’s non-negotiable, Rider and I've already discussed it with Featherstone." Seeing the storm brewing in those green eyes he sighed. "Don't worry, I won't be asking you to do anything objectionable outside the mission requirements, on that you have my word. But I can't have you second guessing me in the field, either. If you do, you'll be a hindrance, not a help to me, and I can't use you. Understood?"_ _

__Her nod this time was reluctant and accompanied by a sceptical frown, but she _did_ nod and he knew her well enough by now to accept that her hesitant agreement meant that she would do as requested._ _

__"Good." He leaned back in his seat, relaxed again. "As I only anticipate needing support in the field on a irregular basis I expect that you will continue with your normal duties and your other training, with the understanding that you are prepared to be pulled from whatever matter you are assigned with in order to assist me in the field at short notice. Agreed?"_ _

__"Yes," her soft contralto was quiet but firm and he nodded in acknowledgement, a small sardonic smile hovering at the edge of his lips._ _

__"Well then, I expect you're going to be rather busy over the next few years." She frowned in confusion at him and he indicated her note pad with a hand. "Take a note, Rider."_ _

__She inclined her head in confusion but did as requested, pen poised, eyebrow raising in increasing alarm as his smile widened into his normal sardonic smirk._ _

__"Consider this your wish list, Rider. I don't expect you to learn all of this immediately, but I do expect that you will learn all these skills in the medium term, and I expect you to learn or improve the ones I specifically mention in the short term to a level where I am comfortable signing you off. Until you do, I won't consider using you actively in the field. So quick, quick, Rider." He smirked at her widening eyes as the extent by which her training schedule was going to be fucked sunk in. "Now, write this down, PADI Divemaster and Enriched Air Diver, Summer and Winter mountain leader, Advanced Commando Parachute training Level…."_ _

__It went on and on, and even as Alex's hand sped across the page as she frantically wrote it all down, internally her eyebrows were arching higher and higher at the sheer breadth of things he expected her to master. Helicopter and Harrier certifications, shit she hardly had her basic pilot's licence yet! Underwater and Aquatic warfare techniques, how the hell was she meant to do those? And still the list went on and she fought back a rapidly rising tide of panic. How the hell could she learn all of those things? It would take years. But outwardly she was impassive, simply taking down a list of his demands in her tidy copperplate, green eyes narrowed in concentration. He finally tailed off 15 minutes later, by which time her hand was cramping and the list extended to two sheets of her note pad._ _

"That's it," he commented, deceptively mild, watching with an inward pang of wicked amusement at the faintly shell shocked expression that even her best poker face couldn't hide. He did so enjoy puncturing her nascent professional detachment, although he had to admit that by this stage in her time with Six very few of even his colleagues would be able to tell that she was thrown by his demands as he could by the almost imperceptible shifts in her expression. But he could, and he took a delicious pleasure in wrecking her detachment whenever possible, for reasons he shied away from considering too closely himself. He watched, amused as she carefully put down her pen and then slowly stretched her fingers out to release the cramps that had built up as she frantically noted down everything that he had told her. 

"That should keep you busy for a bit, I think Rider, wouldn't you agree?" He goaded her gently. 

She fixed him with a distinctly old fashioned look and he couldn't help it, he smirked again, his smile only widening at the narrow eyed look his grin garnered him as he pushed up from the table. "Well, I'd better be going. I'll expect a brief update next week in my inbox as to whatever training plan you and Featherstone come up with, and what areas you expect to certify in first. And I should still be in country on Thursday so I'll see you for our regularly scheduled training session. Until then, Rider, adieu." 

She continued to glare at him from slitted green eyes and he chuckled softly genuinely smiling at her for a moment, startling her into a flash of a wide eyed look before she reverted to her narrow eyed stare as he sauntered off, leaving a far more perturbed Alex behind him than she would ever, even under torture, admit to him. 

Later that afternoon Featherstone looked up from the list that his young protégée had handed over to where Rider was sprawled boneless in his office chair, a faint frown bisecting her forehead and for someone who knew her well a rather traumatised look in those changeable green eyes. 

"Rider, stop worrying." 

She sat upright at the gentle remonstration but continued to frown. "But Sir," she gesticulated to the list now lying on his desk. "All of those things?" She ran a distracted hand down the length of her neat French pleat and tugged on the end. "There are just so _many_ of them! How on earth am I going to learn them all in time?" 

Despite his best intentions Featherstone found his mouth twitching into a smile. "Rider, Bond was pulling your leg." 

She reared back at that. " _Really?_ " 

Featherstone's smile widened. "Yes, really." He shrugged, "well sort of, anyway." At her quizzical look he hastened to clarify. 

"He _does_ expect you to learn all of those things, but he _doesn't_ expect you to do them all right away. And the reason he wants you to learn the skills he mentioned are because they are the skills that _he_ has, and understandably he thinks that you would be more useful to him if you can keep up. But even he took years to gain all of his qualifications, so he isn't expecting you to learn everything on this list within the next few months." He chuckled softly as all of the tension seeped out of his junior agent's long body and she sagged again in her chair. "Think of this list as a long term plan. And I think you may be surprised, when we break his requirements down, how many of the things that he mentioned you already have the basics of down pat." She raised an eyebrow interrogatively at him at that statement. 

"Your uncle taught you the basics of surviving in our world very well, even if you didn't know that was what he was doing at the time. And that should make things a lot easier for you." He smiled again. "Not _easy_ mind you, but easier." 

He looked at her faintly disgruntled expression and chuckled again. "You didn't thing that this was actually going to be _easy_ , did you Rider?" 

At his evident amusement her expression lightened until that rare smile of hers crept out, dazzling. "Well, no Sir," she admitted. "But I had hoped!" 

He outright laughed at that. "No such luck Rider. But the best things in life rarely are. So," he pulled the bit of paper to one side and pulled out another notebook. "Let's get started with that training plan Bond requested. I can't exactly say that you'll have much free time for the foreseeable future with this training tempo, Agent Rider, but there are some small blessings to be found in that." 

"And those are, Sir?" 

"At least you won't be bored!" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Please review! Without a beta I am relying on my eagle eyed readers to pick up any typos etc that I may miss and bring them to my attention, and also to let me know what you think!_


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